


Letting Go

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Pining, Platonic Relationships, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was love at first sight when Lindsay Peterson met Brian Kinney.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The desire to write this story stemmed from writing another story called "Finding Home," which is about the last few episodes of season five (and also becomes a brief post-5-13 story as well). I quickly found that trying to make sense of Lindsay during that time is pretty much impossible. She seems torn in dozens of different directions and very confused about where her loyalties lie. She's very frustrating and can even be seen as one of the factors that break up Brian and Justin. But as I wrote, I found that I felt a lot of sympathy for her. I didn't want to demonize her, even though it's difficult. Her love and desire for Brian basically rules her life, which I understand. I can easily put myself in her shoes. You do **not** have to read "Finding Home" to understand this story. The two are completely separate. 
> 
> In my head-canon, Brian goes through a brief period of trying to be straight (or at least experimenting), and it's during this period that Lindsay meets him. It's actual canon that the two had some kind of relationship that included sex (see season one, pilot episode) although clearly that had ended a long time ago.
> 
> The truly exquisite banner is a gift from Bernerbaer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter depicts Lindsay as very young and naive (not unlike another blond we meet later). Obviously she grows more sophisticated as time goes on.

It was one of those timeless things. You see someone from a distance – across a crowded room, at the back of an auditorium, sitting by themselves at a table in the cafeteria, walking to classes, head up in the rain – and you know you’re, well, to be crass, completely fucked. 

So it was when Lindsay Peterson first saw Brian Kinney.

He was always alone; she never saw him with anyone else. And he never smiled. He wore a lot of black, but not in a punk or Goth kind of way, and he walked with a sort of masculine assurance, which Lindsay (being a Women’s Studies minor) thought she shouldn’t be attracted to, but for some reason, was.

He was also Irish. She knew it was stupid but she couldn’t shut off her grandmother’s country club voice talking about “those papists and all their grubby, screaming babies” or “those papists and all their drinking.” Her parents would politely squirm if she ever had the luck to bring him home to meet them (an image she had difficulty even imagining). 

Of all the men at Carnegie Melon, why did it have to be _him_ she obsessed was with? He was so . . . inappropriate. He even lived off-campus, which usually only older students, druggies and frat boys did. She knew this because (and she was not proud of the fact) she’d followed him home once. It’d been on a whim; she’d seen him at a bus stop and got on the same bus he did. To her surprise, he sat in the second row in the front. For some reason she was sure he’d sit in the very back. She took a seat far enough away that she could pretend to herself she wasn’t stalking him. The trip seemed to go on and on. How far away did he live? At last he pulled the cord and stood up. Lindsay did as well and followed him off the bus.

And then she followed him home . . . or what she assumed was his home.

It was located in what her parents would call “not a very nice place.” There were bars and night clubs and little hole-in-the-wall kabob and pizza shops that were open twenty-four hours. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the streets were empty except for the litter. It was hard to believe anyone actually lived there, but then the target of her investigation turned into a short, narrow alley, and stopped at a metal door in what looked like a windowless brick building that had been painted black. He pulled his keys from his pocket, inserted one in the massive lock, and then, without even turning to look at her, asked why the hell she was following him.

She was so shocked – and embarrassed – that she momentarily forgot how to speak.

He turned to look at her. His expression wasn’t angry, but it was wary and even a little annoyed. All she could stammer were the first words that popped into her head.

“You . . . you have . . . really nice eyelashes.”

Oh God. Why? _Why_ had she said that? It was so bizarre. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. He was going to think she was the weirdest person on the planet.

He just looked her, obviously trying to process the situation. The irritation had vanished from his expression, but the wariness remained.

“I . . . mean . . . I’m an artist,” she said in a rush. “Well, not really, but I’m majoring in art. I draw . . . mostly still lives and some portraits, which is probably . . . Oh God . . . I’m so embarrassed . . . why I noticed your eyelashes.”

It was a cliché, but she really did want the ground to crack open and swallow her whole.

“Darn,” she said. “That sounds really weird, doesn’t it? . . . I’m sorry. I’ll just . . .”

“Darn?” he said. “Did you just say ‘darn’?” He was obviously mocking her, but his eyes showed a kind of playfulness that contradicted his tone. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone say ‘darn’ before.”

She smiled shyly. “I also say ‘dang’ sometimes.”

He continued to look at her for a long, very awkward few moments, and then he smiled. It wasn’t a grin, and it didn’t show his teeth (which Lindsay thought was rather odd), but it was friendly.

“Well,” she said. “It was very nice talking to you. Have a lovely afternoon . . .”

She turned to go (actually, more like run away) when he said, “Hey.”

She stopped and looked back at him.

“Do you wanna come up or something?” he asked.

A million and one alarm bells went off in her head. Oh my God, this is how women get raped. They enter a boy’s place where they’re all alone and no one can hear them scream. She was going to get raped . . . no, even worse, she was going to get tortured and raped and maybe even killed and chopped up and hid in a freezer. No one knew where she was. She didn’t even bring her Mace! Her parents would _kill_ her if they found out she went home with a boy . . . especially _this_ boy . . .

“Okay,” she said.

 

His apartment wasn’t at all what’d she’d expected. She thought it would be dark and cluttered with books and weird things like plastic skulls and posters of The Cure or something, but she was wrong. Instead it was almost entirely empty, which made the small space seem much larger than it was. It was a studio with only one room, which must be the bathroom. Everything else was wide open, even the little kitchen, which was basically just two counters, a refrigerator, a sink and a stove. The small island was littered with take-out boxes and empty beer bottles, but otherwise, the place was spotlessly clean and the wood floor gleamed. The three windows weren’t large, but they had no curtains or shades, so the light shone in unimpeded. There was a couch, a T.V. sitting on a battered steamer trunk, a large bookcase, two stools at the island . . . and, she blushed when she glimpsed it . . . an enormous bed.

“You have a very nice place,” she said politely, strolling around with her hands behind her back as though she was at the Louvre admiring the Impressionists.

He dropped his backpack on the floor and went to the refrigerator. “Thanks. Want something? A beer? I’ve got some whiskey . . .”

“No, no,” she blurted. “I . . . I, uhm, I don’t drink. Do you have any juice or soda?”

He pulled out a bottle of Pepsi and retrieved a tall glass from the cabinet over the sink.

“Ice?”

“Sure,” she said. “But just a little. I have really sensitive teeth . . .”

God. Could she _please_ stop saying stupid things?? She wasn’t the kind of girl who stammered nervously. She’d won debates when she was in high school and conversed effortlessly with the important people her parents were friends with. There was just something about this boy, whether it was his directness or unblinking gaze or something else. She didn’t know. Probably all of the above.

He opened the freezer and took out an ice cube tray. Then he put a single ice cube in her glass and poured the Pepsi.

He was making fun of her. But before she could feel hurt, he asked her what her name was.

“Lindsay,” she replied. “Lindsay Peterson. I’m a sophomore.”

“Yeah, I know what year you are,” he said, opening a beer (which Lindsay found disturbing! It was only 3:30 in the afternoon! People only drank Bloody Marys before five!) “You’re in my art history class,” he added.

“You noticed me?” she exclaimed before her filter could kick in. Why on earth would a boy like him notice a girl like her?

He handed her the glass of Pepsi and looked her right in the eyes for a too-long moment.

“I notice everyone,” he said matter-of-factly. “And everything.”

She nodded and swallowed. “Oh, okay,” she said. “Are you an artist too?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Can’t get rich being an artist. I’m into advertising,” he said. “And if you’re going to be good at advertising, you’ve got to pay close attention to the world. It’s all about wanting people to crave what you’re trying to sell, and you won’t know what people crave unless you watch them, get to know them. As objectively as possible.”

“Which is why you’re always alone,” she said, surprised by her candor. “So you won’t be distracted.”

He cocked his head and appeared to think about her words. “You may be right. I never really thought about it that way,” he said. “I don’t usually hang out with people I don’t already know. Making new friends is a pain in the ass. Besides, despite everything I just said, I really don’t like people very much. Mostly they’re boring, and I hate being bored.”

His words were mean, but casually spoken. He even accompanied them with a shrug of one shoulder. _That’s just how it is_ , he implied. _No offense intended_.

“I hope you don’t find _me_ boring,” she said.

“I hope not, too,” he said. “Wanna sit down? We can sit on the couch or the bed whichever you . . .”

“The couch!” she squeaked. “Let’s sit on the couch!”

He regarded her with an amused expression. “Fine,” he said. “The couch it is.”

He went over to the couch and sat down, sprawling his long legs out in front of him. He’d taken off the boots he’d been wearing, and his feet were bare. She followed and sat down in the other corner as far from him as possible. She crossed her legs and picked nervously at a small, loose thread on her corduroy skirt. _I’ve got to remember to cut that_ , she thought absently.

“So,” he said after he’d finished half his beer. “You followed me home because you like my eyelashes.” It wasn’t a question.

She closed her eyes with a sigh. Would it be terribly rude if she just got up and left?

“That’s okay,” he said. “I don’t mind. Although it’s usually not my eyelashes that I’m complimented on.”

She looked up at him. “I can imagine,” she said shyly. “You have very pretty eyes too.”

He laughed a real honest-to-goodness laugh. “That’s not what I meant,” he said with a quick glance at his lap. “But thank you anyway.”

She blushed so hard that if you could sprain a muscle by blushing she’d be an invalid.

“Sorry,” he said not sounding sorry at all. “That wasn’t very decorous, was it?”

She blinked at him. For some reason she hadn’t imagined that a boy like him would use a word like “decorous.”

“That’s okay,” she said.

They sat in silence while they both finished their drinks. He got up and took her glass from her.

“More Pepsi?” he asked from the kitchen.

She wanted to say ‘yes’ because it would give her something to do with her hands, but then again, if she had more to drink, she might need to use the bathroom, and the thought made her uncomfortable. He’d know that she was lifting her skirt and pulling down her underwear and going pee. That was far more intimate than she felt okay with.

“No, thank you,” she said.

He returned with another beer.

“So, Lindsay,” he said after a couple swigs. “Do you make it a regular habit to stalk men to their homes and go in for a glass of pop?”

What a jerk! What kind of question was that? Why was he so mean? She blushed again, but this time from anger just as much as embarrassment.

“No,” she said coldly. “Of course not. I just . . .”

He arched an eyebrow at her. “You just what?”

“I . . . I just . . . I don’t know . . . I just thought you might be someone I might want to get to know, but obviously I was wrong.”

She stood up and started walking briskly to the door.

He stood up. “Hey!” he called after her. “You don’t have to go or anything. I was just joking.”

She turned and looked back at him. The sun was hitting his dark brown hair in such a way that it seemed slightly auburn. He smiled that closed-lip, odd, sweet smile again. She inhaled sharply. It wasn’t just his eyes and eyelashes that were beautiful – it was everything about him.

She crossed her arms and regarded him sternly. “Just a heads-up, whatever-your-name-is, I’m not as ‘nice’ as I may look, and I don’t like being made fun of.”

He laughed, but it was a nice laugh. “You’re right,” he said. “Sometimes looks can be deceiving. Here, come back.” He sat down again and patted the couch beside him. “And for the record, my name is Brian . . .”

“. . . Kinney,” she said and then blushed again for the zillionth time. “I know from class,” she added quickly. “When Professor Randolph reads the roster.”

“Kinney, that’s right,” he said. “So, Lindsay Peterson, where do you hail from?”

“Pittsburgh,” she replied. “I went to Ellis. What about you?”

“The same,” he said, “except not the Ellis School . . .”

“Obviously,” she said. “It’s an all girls’ school.”

“Really?” he drawled, suddenly sounding bored. “I wouldn’t know. I went to Taylor . . .”

“Oh!” she said, finally feeling able to really connect with him on something. “I’ve heard that Taylor's very good for a public school.”

He laughed. “Jesus Christ, you are such a snob. Do your parents belong to a country club?’

Her blush was angry again. “I’m not a snob, and I can’t help it if my parents are . . .”

“What? Wealthy? WASPy? ‘Cultured’?” He made finger-quotes, but then he must’ve seen she was getting ready to leave again because he reached out and placed a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t hold it against you. It’s not like we can choose our families. If we could, I sure as hell wouldn’t have chosen mine. We live on a fucking suburban cul-de-sac. My dad’s a drunk; my mom’s a God freak, and my sister’s a cunt. I hate all three of them.”

Her mouth fell open. She had _never_ in her whole, entire life heard someone say the “c-word" . . . nor, for that matter, reveal that their father was an alcoholic. In the world she grew up in, things like that weren’t discussed – in public _or_ in private.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she stammered. She was a little freaked out and had no idea what else to say.

He shrugged. “It’s okay. Luck of the draw and all that. Besides, none of that matters now. I’m a free man.” He stood up and spread his arms as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff, embracing the sky. He looked down at her and fixed her with a fierce, defiant gaze. “They can go fuck themselves. Pittsburgh can go fuck itself. I’m going to be fucking rich and get the fuck out of Pennsylvania. I’m just doing my time until I can get an internship in New York.”

She blinked up at him. He was tall and lean and . . . so, _so_ sexy. He was also arrogant and crude. She gave him a polite, brittle smile.

“I can see modesty isn’t one of your attributes,” she said.

He laughed and went to the kitchen. She expected him to bring back another beer, but instead he came back bearing two glasses of what she knew, from living among the country club set, was whiskey. She raised her hand and shook her head when he offered her one, but he ignored her and made her take it anyway.

“No, it’s not,” he said frankly. “Modesty is for losers. So, for that matter, is civility. Drink your fucking whiskey, Lindsay.”

He held up his glass in a salute. “As we Irish say, ‘sláinte.’” He put the rim to his lip, tipped his head back and downed the whole thing in a single swallow.

“Ah!” he said. “Burns so good. C’mon, it’s your turn. Throw it back. It’ll cure what ails you.”

She looked straight at him for a moment. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled with amusement. And his mouth . . . she had never seen such beautiful lips on a boy before. _The heck with it_ , she thought. _I don’t want to be good, little Lindsay forever_. She lifted her glass like he’d done, tipped back her head, took a swallow . . . and then dissolved in a coughing fit.

He laughed and scooted near to her so he could pat her back. “Not bad,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

She made a face at him. “Yeah, right. I almost spat it all over my blouse.”

His laugh went from boisterous to a low, purring chuckle. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” he said. “You might have to take it off.”

She looked at him, and before she could figure out whether or not she wanted to stop him, he pressed his mouth against hers.

She gasped, but she didn’t try to push him away. Instead she opened her mouth a little and let his tongue slip inside.

It wasn’t like she’d never kissed before. There’d been plenty of dates with boys from other prep schools and boys who were the sons of her parents’ friends. She’d even let a couple get almost all the way to third base, but kissing Brian Kinney wasn’t anything like her previous experiences. He was forceful but controlled. She had the distinct impression he was no stranger to the act. After a while of just kissing, he moved to pull her tight against him, wrapping his arms around her waist, and she surprised herself by pressing even closer and putting her arms around his neck. This was going to go farther than she’d ever gone on a first “date.” Slowly, very slowly, he moved to lie on top of her and cupped one of her breasts through her shirt and bra, rubbing his thumb over her nipple. Her heart was thumping against her ribs, and she was . . . she was so . . . so . . . She suddenly realized that if he wanted to go all the way, she would let him.

But in the end, that’s all they did – kiss and touch each other through their clothes . . . but only above the waist. To her surprise, like so many other boys, he hadn’t tried to put his hand up her skirt, although, God, if he had, she wouldn’t have tried to stop him. In fact, she wanted him to.

Suddenly, for the first time, the whole concept of “wanting” someone made sense.

After almost an hour, he turned his head to look at his watch.

“Shit,” he said. “I’ve got to get to work.” He gave her a quick kiss and sat up. The second he released her, she shivered, missing the heat of his body. He stood and held out both hands to her. When she was standing, she grabbed his arm; she felt dizzy, disoriented . . . bereft.

“Where . . . where do you work?” she said unsteadily, watching him as he went to his bed and pulled open a drawer underneath. He stood up and stripped off his shirt in one, graceful movement. She stared at his naked back, feeling desperate to touch it, to feel the muscle move under his skin and trace the length of his spine from his neck to where it disappeared beneath the waistband of his black jeans. He pulled on a maroon polo shirt and turned around to display the logo on his chest.

Pizza Hut.

“I’m the night manager,” he said. “Cool, huh?” He rolled his eyes and sat down to pull on a pair of hightop sneakers.

How very . . . very unsexy. She laughed out loud. “You work at a fast food restaurant?” she said disbelievingly.

He grinned. “Best pay I can get around here and all the bread sticks I can eat. What’s not to like?” He laughed when she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Well at least you’re a manager . . . wait a minute? How old are you?”

“Nineteen, next month,” he replied.

“How on earth did you get a manager position at such a young age?”

He shrugged. “I can get anything I want,” he said as though he was stating a simple, obvious fact. “And the guy who runs the place was . . . open to persuasion.”

She just looked at him as a weird spike of something that might be jealousy pierced her heart. He didn’t sound like he was bragging, but there was a distinct note of certainty in his voice. He was from a different world than she was – a world of whiskey and confident kisses, a world she’d never be a part of. Suddenly she wanted to cry. She bit the inside of her lip almost to the point of blood.

This was it. She was never going to have another chance to be with him like this.

He walked over to her. “C’mon. My job’s back on campus, so we can take the same bus.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she merely nodded. He looked at her with a frown.

“Hey,” he said, putting a finger under her chin and lifting her head. “What’s up? It’s not like I took your virginity or something.”

She actually laughed, she couldn’t help it. He was so very frank about things! He smiled.

“Look, there’s this new night club that sounds pretty cool. I thought I’d check it out on Saturday. Do you think you’ve got something in your WASPy wardrobe that wouldn’t make us look stupid on the dance floor?”

She stared at him while her mouth opened and closed a couple times. He wanted to see her again! She couldn’t believe it! She threw her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

“Hold on,” he said, laughing. “Don’t get all moist. I take it you’ll go with me then?”

“Yes!” she said, not even bothering trying to mask her excitement. True, she’d never been to a night club before nor ever wanted to, but she was beginning to sense that she’d do nothing short of walking through the gates of hell just to be with him.

“Great,” he said. “I have to work that evening. How about you come by the restaurant around nine, and we’ll come back here and change into our slutty club clothes.”

She blushed and (oh, God!) giggled. “All right,” she said. “It’s a date.”

He grew oddly serious for moment and cocked his head, frowning. “I guess you’re right,” he said after a moment. “It’s a date.” 

 

For the first time in her life, Lindsay skipped a class. She hadn’t needed to; she could’ve gone to the mall that evening, but she couldn’t wait. The coming Saturday was all she could think about. Her heart beat with excitement as she walked right past the stores she usually shopped in – Macy’s, Talbots, Ann Taylor – and went straight to those flashy stores with the loud pop music blaring through the doors. The ones her mother had always called “trashy,” although, then again, her mother thought malls in general were “trashy.”

She went into store after store. It took her _forever_ to find something she thought was appropriate for the occasion but still conservative enough that she wouldn’t feel embarrassed wearing it.

“Oh my God, that is, like, soooo cute,” the sales girl said when Lindsay stepped out of the stall in the dressing room so she could look in a full length mirror. She couldn’t help giggling; the outfit was so unlike her. A light-pink bustier and an acid-washed jean skirt that fell above her knees (but not too far above her knees!), and a short white suede jacket that came only to the middle of her ribs. 

“Okay,” said the girl, chomping like a horse on her giant wad of purple gum. “Accessories. How about, like, a pair of white heels and bobby-girl socks with a little bit of lace? And we need to get you some necklaces and bracelets – do you want, like, metal ones or rubber ones? I suggest metal; the rubber bracelets are, like, so mid-eighties. I don’t know why the store even carries them anymore.”

Lindsay put on the recommended footwear and then admired them in the mirror. Goodness, they looked slutty! 

“Oh my God,” said the girl. “You have, like, the most gorgeous legs. I’d, like, kill to have legs like yours!”

Lindsay blushed. It was true, though. The most “edgy” footwear she’d ever worn was the pair of pumps she wore to the prom. The high heels made her legs look amazing. 

The girl left and then returned with heaps of cheap, trashy-looking gold necklaces, one of which was a big cross like Madonna wore in her “Like a Virgin” video. Lindsay cringed. She’d reached the outer boundaries of her taste.

“Uhm, That’s okay,” she said. “I already have some jewelry. But I love the outfit and the shoes,” she said politely.

When the girl rang up her purchase, Lindsay looked at the number on the register with surprise. She’d just bought an entire outfit for less than the price of one cashmere sweater!

“Thank you so much for your assistance,” she said to the girl, who snapped her gum and smiled.

“Whoever he is, he’s a lucky guy,” she said. “You’re, like, a total hottie.” She winked and walked off to help another customer.

Lindsay was still walking on air when she returned to her dorm room and hid her new purchases in the back of her closet. It wasn’t as though her roommate was a prude; she just really didn’t want to have to answer any questions.

At least for the time being, Brian Kinney was her secret.

 

He smelled like pizza as they rode on the bus to his place. It was 9:30, a time when she’d be thinking about getting ready for bed, but there she was, bound for a “night on the town.” It was exciting as much as it was kind of terrifying.

“Don’t you usually have to work the nightshift?” she asked. “How did you get the time off.”

He grinned at her. “Like I said, the guy who runs the place is open to persuasion.”

He didn’t elaborate, which left her to imagine what he might mean. A promise to work a night that he might otherwise not have to? Money? . . . Drugs? Oh God, please don’t let it be drugs! She’d never done drugs herself, and to her knowledge at least, none of the girls she hung around with did either.

She didn’t ask. She didn’t want to know. And he didn’t seem interested in elaborating.

When they got to his place, he announced he was going to take a shower so he wouldn’t smell like the Meat Lover’s Special.

“Get yourself whatever you want to drink,” he said . . . and then he stripped to his underwear and walked to the bathroom.

She gasped and quickly covered her eyes. He laughed.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I kept on the Fruit of the Looms. You can change out here while I’m taking a shower or you could wait until I’m out of the bathroom. I don’t care.”

It wasn’t even a choice – _of course_ she’d wait to use the bathroom! There was no way she’d take the risk of him walking out and seeing her in her underwear!

He emerged after a few minutes drying his hair and wearing nothing but a towel. She blushed and turned away but not so fast that she didn’t notice his lean, but muscled chest still wet from the shower. He walked over to the bed and let his towel drop to the floor.

She grabbed the shopping bag holding her new outfit and bolted for the bathroom.

The bathroom was much nicer than she’d expected. Like the rest of the apartment, it was spotlessly clean. It even smelled nice. There was a small, opaque window that he’d left open to let the steam out. As quickly as she could, she changed her clothes and put on her jewelry and some blush (tastefully pink) and mascara.

When she emerged, her breath caught in her lungs. He was dressed in skin-tight black jeans and a fashionably rumpled, button-up white shirt and a skinny, grey, leather tie. He’d gelled his hair into the latest fashion, looking as though he’d stepped right out of an MTV music video. He must’ve been able to tell from her expression that she thought he looked amazing because he smirked and spread his arms.

“Not bad, eh?” he said.

He looked her over from the top of her head to her feet and then back again. His gaze was intense, and she blushed.

“You look good,” he said. “I’m surprised. I thought you’d show up in a purple bride’s maid dress with puffy sleeves and dyed shoes to match . . .” He walked over to her and took her hand. At first she thought he was going to kiss it, but then she realized that he was looking at her three-strand pearl and diamond bracelet.

“Shit,” he said. “Is that real?”

“Of course,” she said. What the heck? Did he think that a girl like her would wear fake pearls?

“Take it off,” he said. “That’ll last all of five minutes in a dark club. Here . . .” He rolled up his right sleeve and deftly untied a leather bracelet made of conch shells. “Wear this.”

She wasn’t sure what to think. She’d thought her bracelet looked perfect with her outfit, and his didn’t look very feminine, but then again, it belonged to him, and that’s what mattered. She held out her hand wrist-up and he put it on her, tying it snuggly.

“There,” he said. “Now we won’t have to spend half the night at the police station filling out paperwork. Okay, let’s drink some water and get out of here.”

She was about to follow him to the kitchen but then stopped. He was looking in the refrigerator with his back to her. Before she could talk herself out of it, she placed her pearl bracelet on top of the T.V.

If he was a nice person (which she felt pretty sure that he was), there’d be no way he wouldn’t return it to her, which meant that no matter what happened that night, she would see him again.

 

The night club was loud, so loud that they had to yell in each other’s ears to have a conversation. There were a million people, all bumping into each other, and spotlights and black-lights flashing on and off.

She absolutely hated it. 

But then Brian took her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor – and after that she was aware of nothing except his happy, flushed face and the movement of his beautiful body. Everyone and everything else simply vanished.

They danced fast songs and slow songs and everything in between. She noticed fleetingly that the other couples were making out, and the boys had their hands on the girls’ bottoms. She was both relieved and disappointed that Brian didn’t try to do the same. He held her close when they were slow dancing, but he didn’t try to kiss her or touch her indiscreetly.

“Having fun?” he said in her ear, his mouth close enough that she could hear him clearly despite the music.

“Yeah,” she replied. “This is totally great. I can’t believe I’ve never been to a club before.”

“Good,” he said and then after a moment added, “You know, you’re not as hung-up and prudish as I kinda thought you were. You’re actually pretty cool to hang out with.”

She pulled back and grinned at him. She’d never felt so happy – so free in her life.

After a while they took a break, and he led her to the bar.

“Time for some refreshments,” he said. “What do you want?”

“Just some pop,” she replied. “Coke or Pepsi if they’ve got it.”

“Rum, vodka or gin?” he asked. “I suggest rum. Gin and Coke sounds absolutely disgusting.”

Oh no. Darn it. He expected her to drink alcohol. She’d hoped the situation wouldn’t come up.

“Uhm, I . . . just a Coke . . .” she stammered.

He rolled his lips. She couldn’t tell what that meant. Was he trying not to laugh at her?

“I’m . . . sorry . . . I know I’m . . . I just don’t feel comfortable drinking right now,” she said, praying that she hadn’t ruined her new reputation as a non-prude. “But you can . . . if you want, I mean.”

He smiled at her. “No problem,” he said in a way that suggested he was just fine with her choice.

She breathed a sigh of relief and smiled back at him.

“Just stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back. Coke or Pepsi, right?”

She nodded, but then she thought of something. “But you’re only eighteen,” she said.

He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and showed her a Florida driver’s license. “Not tonight,” he said, grinning. “Tonight, I’m twenty-two. Plus,” he added. “See that bar tender over there? I’m willing to bet he won’t even ask to see my ID. Wanna bet? If I lose I’ll give you a free pizza.”

“And if I lose?” she asked, blushing. 

“Then you owe me another dance,” he replied.

She couldn’t help feeling disappointed. That wasn’t the prize she’d been aiming for.

He gave her a quick kiss before turning and walking to the bar. He went straight to the bartender he’d pointed out and leaned on the counter. A few words passed between them, and the next thing Lindsay knew, the man was serving Brian despite the line of people who’d been in front of him. The man’s smile looked almost shy as he handed Brian his drinks.

“Wow, I’m impressed,” she said when he returned. “Is he someone you know?”

Brian did that rolled lips thing again and shrugged. “Yeah,” he said. “We met once.”

“Well, he seems like a really nice guy,” she said. He handed her Pepsi to her and she took a long sip through the fluorescent green straw.

Brian shrugged again and said something that sounded like “I wouldn’t know,” which was a very odd thing to say.

“What?” she asked. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“I said ‘I know,’” he replied and drained his glass. When he kissed her again, there was a taste of whiskey on his lips. “So, what kind of pizza do you like?”

She laughed happily and took their empty glasses and put them on a nearby table. He took her hand and pulled her back out onto the dance floor.

“But I’m the one who lost,” she said when he took her in his arms.

“So what,” he replied. “Because I’m having so much fun tonight, I wanted to return the favor and spare you one of your meal plan dinners.”

“Okay, then guess,” she said.

He cocked his head and frowned. “Guess what?”

“Guess what kind of pizza I like.”

He scratched his chin, pretending to think for a moment. “Broccoli,” he replied.

She punched him in the shoulder. “No," she said indignantly. “Ham, pepperoni and mushrooms.”

He feigned surprise. “A nice girl like you wants two kinds of meat on her pizza? I’m beginning to think you’re a tramp, Lindsay Peterson.”

She threw her arms around his neck. “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “But if I am, it’s only because of you. You’re a bad influence, Brian Kinney.”

He laughed and kept laughing. “You’re not the first person who’s told me that,” he said. “But you’re the first person who’s really made me work for it.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied. This time when they kissed, it wasn’t just a peck.

 

They stayed until the lights came on and the bouncers started herding everyone to the door. He took her hand so that they wouldn’t be separated in the crowd. Once they were free of the throng, he led her in the direction of the all-night take-out places.

“I’m starved,” he said. “How about you?”

She’d been so wrapped up in being with him that she hadn’t even thought about food, but now that he’d mentioned it, she realized that she was starving as well.

“What’ll it be?” he asked. “There’s Chinese, kabobs, pizza – oh God, please don’t say you want pizza.”

She laughed. “Tired of pizza? I’m not surprised. How about Chinese?”

“Excellent choice,” he replied. “There’s nothing like greasy wontons and eggrolls after a night of dancing. C’mon.”

She tried to pay, but he wouldn’t let her.

“It’s a date,” he said. “Remember? Guys pay, and girls sit back and be pampered.”

“Only with the expectation that they’ll put out . . .” She clapped her hand over her mouth. Darn! Why did being around him make her say the dumbest things?

He cocked his head and regarded her seriously for a moment. “I don’t care if we fuck or not,” he said. “I’m not some asshole.”

“No! . . . no, I didn’t mean to imply that you were,” she stammered. “I . . . I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”

He collected their bags of take-out, and they walked back out onto the street.

“It’s alright,” he said and sounded completely genuine. “That’s how things work with you guys.” He shrugged. “It’s not surprising you’d expect the same from me.”

She stopped and looked at him with a frown. What a bizarre thing to say! He stopped and looked back at her with a “what the heck?” expression.

“What do you mean by ‘we guys,’?” she asked. “And why do you say you’re different?”

Now it was his turn to blush and stammer. “Nothing . . . I was . . . well, I meant you country club set . . . that’s all . . . I’m sorry it came out weird. Why? Do you think I’m a fag or something?” The last question sounded slightly belligerent. 

Her jaw dropped. The thought had never even crossed her mind. “Of course, you’re not,” she blurted. “I mean, ghezz, you don’t look like . . . a . . . homosexual or anything.”

He rolled in his lips and seemed to look at something past her shoulder. “Good,” he finally said. “I just wanted to get that out of the way. Let’s go back to my place before our food gets cold.”

Then he chased away any lingering awkwardness with one of his gorgeous grins.

 

If there _had_ been any doubt in her mind that Brian was a homosexual (which there wasn’t), he proved he was anything but when he made love to her later that night.

Like everything about him, it hadn’t been what she’d expected. Her friends who’d had sex said it was kind of rushed and uncomfortable and then afterwards, the boys were really weird. It also seemed to always happen in a car or under a football stadium or in a childhood bedroom while the parents were out. Even though most of her friends who’d had sex seemed sort of proud about it, none had ever told her they enjoyed it. It was one of the many reasons she was happy to have gotten through high school and her first year of college without losing her virginity. 

But it was neither rushed nor uncomfortable with Brian. They made out for a long time on the couch like they had the other day. After a while, as he moved to try to get on top of her, they both simultaneously realized it wasn’t going to be possible if he didn’t want to topple off onto the floor. When he stood up and held out his hand, she knew where they were going. She hesitated but only for a moment. On his bed, he didn’t move to get on top of her right away, but resumed kissing her. After a while, she actually thought that that was going to be as far as things got, but then he started unlacing her bustier and pressing kisses against her throat. Sometime during the whole thing, she spread her legs, bunching up her skirt and he moved to lie between them as though he’d always belonged there.

They kissed, and he played with her breasts until he began moving his hips between her thighs, and it was at that moment she knew they were going to have sex. She could feel the hard bulge of his . . . oh, my God . . . his . . . his erection (*gulp*). She’d never touched a boy’s penis before, and she was kind of terrified to do so now, but desire outweighed the fear, and she reached down and touched him through his jeans. He released a long, pent-up sigh and pressed himself into her palm.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked softly. “‘Coz we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

She blushed, but her voice was steady and direct when she said, “Yes. I want to do this.”

He kissed both of her nipples and rose to his knees. He’d already taken off his tie, so all he needed to do was unbutton his shirt and get out of his jeans, which proved a tad difficult because of their tightness, and they laughed as he struggled to be free of them. She unzipped her skirt . . . and then there they were, both of them in nothing but their underwear.

She wanted to look at his penis, but at the same time she was embarrassed to, so as he pushed down his underwear and stepped out of them, her gaze flitted between his face and his groin and back again. Wow, it was weird looking, and, to be honest, not very attractive. It was stiff, standing out at a ninety degree angle from his groin, and it was darker than the rest of his skin and full of large veins. It was also strange looking at his pubic hair – it was so dark and there was so much of it. Nothing like her tidy, blonde thatch. She wondered if he felt embarrassed by how weird his penis looked, but then she chided herself. It was part of his body that he saw every day. Why would he be embarrassed by it?

He climbed onto the bed and lay on top of her. She could feel the heat of his erection through her panties, and was suddenly struck with fear. Was it going to hurt? What if she got pregnant? What if this was all he wanted from her, and he wouldn’t want to see her again?

He must’ve felt her body tense, but he shushed her with a soft kiss. “Are you _sure_ this is okay?” he asked.

She nodded because, yes, it really was okay. And what was more, when she let herself relax, she realized she wanted him to be inside her more than she’d ever wanted anything.

He rolled to the side and slipped his hand inside her panties, touching her vagina, but not putting his finger all the way in.

“Mmmmm,” he purred. “Definitely no need for lube. You’re really wet.”

She blushed. No boy had ever talked to her while he touched her. His kisses were less gentle than they had been, but his touch was . . . well, the only word that sprang to her mind was “respectful.” He didn’t try to shove his finger inside her like she’d expected; instead he moved gradually until, without her even fully realizing it, his finger was as deep as he could get it. When he started sliding it in and out, she thought she might die from the sensation.

She’d had orgasms before, of course, but never with anyone else. She’d never been able to actually picture it. The experience was way, _way_ too personal and intimate. But she was starting to feel like she might have one with Brian. Her breath was so shallow and rapid that she felt a little dizzy, and she was vaguely aware that she’d started to move her own hips in time with the rhythm of his penetration.

“Ready for something a little bigger?” he said after a couple minutes.

She nodded wordlessly. She would’ve begged except it seemed kind of slutty, and, also, she suspected she didn’t need to. But at least she was coherent enough to ask about condoms.

He smiled at her and used one hand to open one of the drawers under his bed and retrieved a condom. He tore it open with his teeth and pulled the condom free . . .

. . . she suddenly had a terrible feeling that she was far from the first person he’d had sex with. But then again, maybe that was a good thing. At least one of them would know what they were doing.

When he had the condom on, he helped her pull off her panties, and then he lay back down on top of her. For a while he just moved like he had before, just pressing down and pulling away without entering to her. It went on long enough that she felt like she might scream. At last he straightened his arms and pushed himself up.

“Ready?” he asked.

She just nodded. He reached between them and took his penis and placed the head of it against her vagina . . . and then he entered her with one, steady push.

She cried out and sunk her fingernails into his shoulders, but not because it hurt. On the contrary, it felt amazing.

“Okay?” he gasped, and she nodded again.

He began to thrust, and after a minute or two, she realized things would be easier if she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist. He groaned softly as he slid in all the way and starting moving faster . . .

. . . and that was when she had an orgasm.

“Oh my God,” she said, staring up at him with wide, astonished eyes. He smiled a wicked, little smile and then let himself go. She watched his face, mesmerized by the expressions that crossed it. He almost looked like he was in pain. At the last second, he squeezed his eyes shut, thrust savagely a couple times, froze, and cried out. When he opened his eyes, he looked at bit dazed . . . even disbelieving as though he hadn’t thought it would work. They stared at each other for a wonderful moment and then broke down into giggles. 

The next morning they made love again and she had another orgasm, this time strong enough that she felt a little crampy afterwards. He lasted longer this time, and once or twice she thought she felt him get a little bit soft, but she must’ve imagined it because when he had his orgasm, it seemed to go on forever. He collapsed on top of her, shaking from the exertion, after which they continued to lie around in bed, dozing and talking and then dozing and talking some more. She told him about her dream of someday being able to make a living as an artist. He told her about how he’d been “adopted” by a woman named Debbie, and that her son, Michael, was the brother he’d never had. She told him about the difficult relationship she had with her mother and the wonderful, close relationship she had with her dad. He told her the background behind his interest in advertising. She told him about her family’s beloved house in the Green mountains of Vermont where she spent her summers. He told her about the Pennsylvania cities where his family had lived until they finally settled in Pittsburgh when he was fourteen. She told him about her best friend who’d died in a car accident right before their high school graduation, and he’d held her while she cried. He’d told her that his dad sometimes hit him when he was drunk, and she weaved their fingers together, squeezing his hand to convey her sadness for him . . .

. . . and then he told her that he’d never had sex with another girl; that this had been his first time too.

She’d looked at him with amazement. At first she thought he was joking, but when his eyes remained solemn and he didn’t smile, she realized it was true. She could barely believe it! He seemed so confident about his body, about touching her!

“Really??” she asked.

He nodded. “You’re the first girl I’ve ever been with.”

“How . . . how did you . . . I mean you seemed so comfortable . . . how did you know what to do?”

He laughed. “I just did what came naturally,” he said. “I mean it’s not exactly rocket science. A lot of people much stupider than us have been figuring it out since the dawn of time.”

“Thank goodness we aren’t pandas,” she said, laughing.

He arched an eyebrow. “Pandas? What have pandas got to do with anything?”

She looked at his face, that beautiful, insolent expression, that red mouth . . . and, of course, those dark lashes . . . God, she was in deep – even deeper now that she knew he’d been a virgin too and they’d shared this amazing first together.

“Hello,” he said, waving his hand in front of her eyes. “Pandas. You were talking about pandas.”

“Oh, right,” she said, laughing. “Well, pandas just can’t seem to figure out how sex works. The males can’t figure out which end of the female is the right one. And even funnier, the males often try to have sex with the other males. Isn’t that crazy? It’s really silly and weird. Can you imagine two male pandas trying to have sex? How gross! When I read about it the first time, I died laughing . . .”

Suddenly, the strangest thing happened. His expression, which had been open and amused suddenly closed like a slammed door. Without saying anything, he looked away and sat up.

“I’ve got to get going,” he said briskly. He got out of bed and headed straight for the bathroom. All she could do was watch with her mouth open as he walked away.

What the heck had she just done?

She heard the shower running and got up. Her “club outfit” was crumpled on the floor. She picked up the skirt and bustier and folded them neatly. Her mind was a complete blank as she put on the cords and sweater that she’d worn when she met him at Pizza Hut yesterday evening. She was pulling on her socks and loafers when he finally emerged from the bathroom and gave her weak, guilty-looking smile. He came over and gave her a long enough kiss that they both closed their eyes.

“Here’s your bracelet,” she said when they separated. She held it out to him, and he took it without saying anything. When she saw he was having trouble tying it back on, she reached out to help. They both watched her fingers move, and then looked up into each other’s eyes at the same instant.

He cleared his throat after a moment. “I’ve got to go to campus for something,” he said. “I’ll ride the bus with you.”

She bit her lip, suddenly afraid that she was going to cry. What had happened? They’d made love – twice! – and talked about intimate things for hours, and now he seemed so distant, so impersonal. She wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him and ask what was wrong.

But she didn’t, and he didn’t volunteer to discuss it. They didn’t speak all the way back to campus. When her stop came, she stood up. He wasn’t going to say anything. She couldn’t believe it! In the course of an hour, the most wonderful time of her life had turned sour. She wanted to yell at him, but she’d never yelled at anyone before except her mother and that had been in the privacy of their home. Instead, she picked up her bag and turned to walk away. She would have said something WASPy and cold like “have a lovely rest of the day,” but she was afraid that if she tried to speak she’d start sobbing.

“Hey,” he said, standing up and reaching out to grab her arm. “Wait. I . . . I want to see you again.”

She just turned and gave him the same distant, impersonal look he’d given her back at his apartment.

“I live in Haller Hall,” she said with a distinct chill in her voice. “You can find the number in the campus directory if you’re so inclined.”

He opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, but she turned and got off the bus without looking back. 

 

It was fortunate that she didn’t know Brian’s phone number because that night, she and some of her sorority sisters drank several bottles of wine, and she got drunk for the first time in her life. If she’d had his number, she would certainly have called him and then been horrified in the morning.

“So,” her roommate said. “Little Miss Lindsay didn’t come home last night.”

The girls all ooohhhhhed and winked at her.

“Little Miss Lindsay got laid.”

She blushed, caught between anger at being cornered and a kind of pride. Brian was easily the most beautiful boy at all of Penn State, and he’d wanted her! . . . Or at least it’d seemed like he did.

“Who is he? Does he play soccer, football or hockey? Or is he on the swim team? Those guys are, like, so crazy hot.”

They needled her until she answered some of their questions.

“He’s not on any teams,” she said, and they all looked a little appalled.

“Then how’d you meet him?” one of her sisters asked.

She blushed again. There was no way in heck she was going to tell them the truth.

“In my art history class,” she said.

“Oh, an intellectual. So, is he hot?”

She smiled to herself. Is he hot? Is the ocean deep? She was drunk so she said it:

“He’s the most amazing, gorgeous, sexy man who ever existed. He’s smart and funny . . .”

“Come on,” said her roommate. “Details! We want details.”

Lindsay shoved aside the pain that tugged at her heart at the memory of how their time together had ended. No matter how things had turned out, he’d still been . . . she struggled to find the right word . . . incredible. That’s what he was. He was incredible.

“Well,” she said slowly, enjoying being the center of curiosity for a change. “He’s really tall . . .”

“Taller even than you, Miss Scarecrow?”

God, she hated being called that. The nickname had dogged her since she was thirteen.

“Yes,” she said, “even taller than me.”

“What color is his hair?”

“What color are his eyes?”

“Is he a good kisser?”

“The answers,” she said coyly, “are dark brown, hazel, and yes.”

The girls all squealed, and one of them opened another bottle.

“Is he buff?”

“Is he tan?”

“Is his dick big?”

They all fell about laughing, even Lindsay.

“Okay, okay,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “The answers are not really, not really and . . . yes.”

More squealing.

“How big? Are we talking cucumbers or carrots?”

Lindsay was embarrassed to find that the question aroused her. Yes, his penis had looked . . . kind of weird as probably all penises did, but it had felt so good when it was inside her.

“Definitely cucumbers,” she said giggling.

“Circumference or length?”

“Both.”

“Oh my God, girl! How can you still be walking around? So was he good?”

“Not that she’d have anything to compare him with . . .”

“He was _amazing_ ,” Lindsay said. “We did it twice!”

God, she was really drunk.

“Did you come?”

More squealing and admonishments to “leave poor Lindsay alone.”

She blushed, but nonetheless took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said. “Both times.”

Someone popped open a bottle of Champagne, and everyone cheered. When they all had a glass they raised them.

“To Lindsay,” they cried.

“To hot guys,” someone added.

“To wet panties,” Lindsay’s roommate added, and everyone all said “eeeewwwwwww” at the same time.

“So when are you going to see him again?”

“Are you two going together now?”

“When do we get to meet him?”

Lindsay didn’t want to answer any of those questions, and she was saved from having to do so when she suddenly felt nauseous and had to run to the bathroom to throw up. After a couple minutes, her roommate came in to check on her.

Lindsay groaned. “Ugh. Why does anyone do this to themselves?”

Her roommate came into the stall and held her hair back while she threw up again.

“Because it’s fun?”

“It is _not_ fun,” Lindsay replied. “And neither is being in love.”

And that’s when she started to cry.

“Oh, sweetie,” her roommate said, pulling her into her arms and rocking her side to side. “I’m so sorry.”

“I . . . I thought *hiccup* that we had something *hiccup* special . . . and then *hiccup* . . . he was so weird . . . and I *hiccup* love him . . . and I . . . I can’t *hiccup* live without him . . . he’s . . . he’s amazing, Jenny. . . *hiccup* . . . he’s so smart *hiccup* and sensitive *hiccup* and sweet *hiccup* . . . I’ve never *hiccup* met a boy like him . . . I *hiccup* want to be with him *hiccup* forever . . . he’s . . . he’s . . . Jenny, you should *hiccup* see him . . . he’s like . . . he’s like a *hiccup* painting . . . he’s got *hiccup* the most *hiccup* beautiful face you’ve ever *hiccup* seen . . . and his eyes . . . Jenny, his eyes *hiccup* are so full of *hiccup* of life and experience . . . and I *hiccup* I think he could love me *hiccup* if he *hiccup* gave it a chance . . . God, *hiccup* Jenny, I’d do *hiccup* anything in the world for him . . . he’s my *hiccup* soul mate, I know he is, I *hiccup* knew it from the first *hiccup* moment I saw him.”

“There, there,” her roommate said. “Let’s get you into the shower and then into bed. Everything will feel better in the morning . . . except your head. That might not feel better until lunch.”

Lindsay wiped her eyes and smiled a wobbly smile. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re the best roomie ever, even though you’re kind of a slut.”

Jenny laughed long and loudly. She stood up and reached her hands out to help Lindsay to her feet. “Tomorrow’s another day, Sunshine,” Jenny said. “Don’t give up hope yet.” She kissed Lindsay’s forehead and helped her back to their room.

 

She was proud of herself for avoiding Pizza Hut like the plague, and she was even more proud of herself when she didn’t search for him when she walked into Art History. It was the first time she hadn’t done so since the start of the semester.

She was packing her books in her backpack when she heard someone approach her. She held her breath, not daring to hope . . .

“Hey,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

“Fine,” she said without looking at him. “How are you?”

She heard him shift uncomfortably.

“Not so great,” he said after a moment.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “Now if you’ll please excuse me, I have to meet a friend for lunch.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding dejected. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to have lunch with me.”

She lifted her head and looked at him. “You were?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah, I was.”

She tried not to smile and failed utterly. “It’s my roommate I’m meeting,” she said. “How about you join us?”

He shrugged his backpack up further onto his shoulder. “Uhm, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure I’m really in the mood to meet anyone.”

She swallowed. Darn it! She wanted so badly to go with him, but she didn’t want to stand up Jenny.

“Will you wait for me?” she asked. “I’ll just run over to the cafeteria and tell her my plans have changed. Can you meet me outside on the steps and keep track of my backpack? I’ll be right back, I swear.”

He smiled that sweet, closed-mouth smile. “Sure,” he said. “Take your time.”

She walked as quickly as she could out of the auditorium without losing her dignity, but as soon as she was outside, she sprinted toward the student union. God, she never realized how far away it was! At one point, she stopped to take off her shoes, which were a tad bit too big. She didn’t give a darn if her socks got dirty. By the time she reached her destination, she felt like her lungs were going to explode.

“Jenny!” she yelled as soon as she came running into the cafeteria. “Jenny!”

“Right here,” her roommate said, coming up behind her. “My God, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

Lindsay tried to catch her breath without success.

“He . . . he wants to *gasp* have lunch. Is it okay *gasp* if you and I *gasp* have lunch some other *gasp* time?”

Jenny’s face broke into a huge grin. “Christ, girl, why are you even here? You should’ve just stood me up. Of course, I’ll take a rain check! It’s not like we don’t spend practically every waking moment together. Now hurry the hell up before he changes his mind!”

Lindsay quickly kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you _so much_!”

She didn’t wait for Jenny to answer, but she could hear her laughing as she sprinted toward the door.

 

It was like nothing weird had ever happened. She and Brian had lunch at a grungy little sandwich place and then spent the rest of the gorgeous spring afternoon walking around. They talked about what they were going to write about for their thesis papers in Art History. She told him about her drunken escapade with her sorority sisters (although she left out the vomiting and other *ahem* details). He laughed and called her an “innocent,” promising her that he’d teach her how to “drink any of those girls under the table.” She told him about how worried she was about her final art project; she needed at least a B+ to get into the advanced drawing class. He told her he’d be happy to pose for a nude, and she actually (and gratefully – for several reasons) took him up on his offer. She told him about her plans for the summer, and he told her he was “going back to the Pitts” to work at “another damn Pizza Hut.” She asked him if he was going to live at home, and he said not if he could help it. They talked about the American Short Story class he was taking and which authors he did or didn’t like and why. She told him a bit about Jenny and how she’d been sexually abused by her grandfather. He listened quietly. He didn’t say anything, but he took her hand when she got teary. They talked a bit about politics and religion, but just long enough for her to learn that he was a libertarian and thought that Catholicism (and every other religion) was “a load of shit.” She told him that her sister had gotten pregnant when she was in college and had an abortion, and he told her that _his_ sister had once tried to kill herself but that “she was such a loser, she couldn’t even do that right.” She was slightly appalled until he told her, very cryptically but still clearly enough for her to understand, that he’d tried to kill himself too, and, like his sister, he had failed . . . or rather “Mikey” had found him and called the hospital. She knew from previous conversations that “Mikey” was his best friend – and “brother” – the same boy he’d mentioned before when they were lying in bed at his apartment. After a couple of minutes as they walked across the soccer field, she asked him very quietly and respectfully what had happened. He was silent for a while, but then he said, just as quietly and without looking at her, that his father had beat the shit out of his mother for, as his father had said, “giving birth to two useless kids.” He told her he’d “just fucking had it,” that he was “going through some really heavy personal shit,” and that he just couldn’t deal anymore. He’d gone out to the garage, got in his parents’ car and started it. To this day, he said, he has no idea how Michael found out, but suddenly Michael was there, opening the garage door and pulling Brian out of the car, barely conscious.

She’d never met him, but in that moment she knew she loved Michael as much as Brian did – or nearly as much. The thought of this beautiful, intelligent, incredible boy dying in an old Buick in a cluttered garage was more than she could bear thinking about.

When it started to get dark, they caught the bus back to his apartment and made love. He was so gentle and kind and considerate. Never – not even for a second – did she feel like he was forcing her to a place she wasn’t ready to go. He was so patient when it came to his own release that she could have more than one orgasm. She’d never felt so . . . sexual before, so tuned in and in sync with her body.

She spent that night with him . . . and then the next night and the next and the next. They didn’t have sex all the time – or even most of the time – but they talked and laughed and played Scrabble. She spent hours sketching him as he sat on the couch reading or sleeping. Every day he grew more and more beautiful to her. His eyes, his mouth, his hands . . . God, he had the most beautiful hands. When he woke in the morning and looked at her sleepily, she thought her heart would break with love for him. He defied the ability of words or pencil or charcoal or film to capture his essence. No matter how long they kissed or how many times they made love, she couldn’t get close enough to him. The only thing that could satisfy her is if they could become one – one single person instead of two. One flesh. One heart. One breath. Brian Kinney. Even his name on her tongue felt sexual. She sketched his feet, his stomach, his buttocks, his closed eyes with his dark lashes and masculine eyebrows. She sketched the back of his neck while he sat reading with his head down. She sketched his fingers as he twirled a pen between them. She sketched his smile with that one, single, gorgeously imperfect canine. She sketched him in sunlight and moonlight and candlelight. She’d never felt so inspired, so _good_ at what she did. He was more than her muse, he was her everything. His drawling voice and sudden laughter were music to her, his teasing glance her lodestar. Their caresses were deliberate and exploratory, and after a while she found she wanted to sketch other parts of him – his penis, erect and soft, his unruly pubic hair, his scrotum – every inch of him was beautiful to her. As perfect as God’s pristine vision of Adam. She ran her fingers through his hair and covered his face with soft brushes of her lips, and they kissed . . . and kissed and kissed and kissed. And on Saturday nights they bounced from night club to night club, dancing under the pulse of spotlights amidst the laughter of strangers and the music throbbing like blood in their ears. She saw nothing but him. Smelled nothing but him. Tasted nothing but him. Brian Kinney, her heart’s buried treasure, her soul’s delight. Brian Kinney, her past, her present, her future. There was no danger she wouldn’t walk through to be by his side; nothing she wouldn’t do to protect him. She’d gladly lay down her life for him – her lover, her inspiration, her best friend. Her light in the darkness. Her anchor in a stormy sea. Her Brian Kinney. Her angel. Her beautiful, beautiful, beautiful Brian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Lindsay. That scene in season one, episode 19 in which she, Melanie and Justin are pushing the mattress up the stairs, Justin tells them he'd slept with Daphne as a favor but is now annoyed that she's "gotten all weird." Both Lindsay and Melanie are surprised and rather appalled. They can't believe Justin did it, and he's confused because, gheez, sex is just sex, right? But Lindsay sets him straight. Her eyes grow misty with nostalgia as she talks about what it's like to lose you virginity with a man and how it makes you feel about him. The exchange is fascinating because not only do I think Lindsay is thinking about Brian, but we the viewers know that the same experience had also been true for Justin when _he'd_ lost his virginity to Brian. Little do Lindsay and Justin know that their experiences with Brian were virtually identical.
> 
> Justin: Women are so fucking weird  
> Lindsay: Why is [buying a mattress on sale] a "woman thing"?  
> Justin: Because no guy, unless he had money issues, would do something like that. And you're weird about sex. After I had sex with my friend Daphne, she fucking flipped out."  
> Lindsay & Melanie: "What??"  
> Melanie: You slept with Daphne?  
> Justin: She wanted me to be her first time.  
> Lindsay: *deep sigh* And how was it?  
> Justin: It was . . . she's gonna need practice. Anyway, we agreed nothing would change, but it totally has. I think she's in love with me.  
> Lindsay: That's because it's not easy for most women to separate love and sex as it is for a man.  
> Melanie: That was always my big complaint with men.  
> Lindsay: Especially when it's your first time. I mean here you are allowing someone else to come inside your body.  
> Melanie: You've never felt so close to anyone in your life.  
> Lindsay: And before you know it, you're falling in love with this person who's made you feel like . . . you never even knew you could feel.  
> Melanie: So now do you understand why Daphne might be in love with you?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lindsay meets Michael - and it's not pleasant despite all of the things they have in common (the main one being a desperate, all-consuming passion for Brian). For Michael, it's a preview of the "then _he_ came along" saga. Poor Michael (seriously), jealousy defines every aspect of his life. Brian is his, Goddamn it! How exhausting! No wonder Deb desperately wants him to get a life that doesn't orbit around an unattainable crush. (Lindsay would do well to take notes.)

Poets have been writing about it for hundreds of years. Countless artists have tried to capture its essence and reflect it back to the world. Musicians have composed melodies, and songwriters have written an untold number of songs. People have undergone tremendous hardship both to find it and then once they have it, to keep it. Love. It is as intrinsic to human experience as is grief – the former often the root of the latter. A heart cannot grow in its absence; souls curl up, turn brown and die. It can define lives, create lives and just as easily destroy them. It is a dream we chase into the mundane reality of a waking world. It is a constant ache, a ponderous craving, a devouring hunger, a merciless, all-consuming bliss.

Such was the love Lindsay Peterson felt for Brian Kinney.

They were inseparable. You couldn’t say a sentence in which one’s name was mentioned and not the other’s. Only when Brian worked or they had separate classes were they apart. Otherwise they slept together, woke together, ate together, did their homework together, watched T.V. together . . . any activity that could be shared with another person they did together. Everything else was forgotten – her friendships, weekend visits with her parents, her sorority. Nothing took precedence over the time she spent with Brian.

“Are you two going to get married?” Jenny asked one evening. Brian was at work and she and Lindsay were hanging out in their dorm room – or rather, Jenny’s room since Lindsay didn’t live there anymore.

Lindsay blushed. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t daydreamed about it, but she felt silly talking about it, even with her best friend. She and Brian were only nineteen for heaven’s sake! Her parents would have a conniption and probably disown her. They were already furious that she’d decided not to spend her junior year in Europe as she – and they – had always planned. But a whole year without Brian was unthinkable.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I mean we’re awfully young.”

“Who gives a shit?” Jenny said, opening a box of chocolate Teddy Grahams. “Weren’t Romeo and Juliet like fifteen or something?”

Lindsay laughed. She hated that Brian had to work five nights a week, but it was fun getting a chance to spend time with Jenny.

“Amuse me,” Jenny said. “Church wedding or secular wedding?”

Lindsay rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe we’re going to do this,” she said. “Okay, secular. Brian hates religion.”

“Oh my God, your parents would fucking flip out if you didn’t get married in their respectable, Episcopalian church!”

“Are you kidding?” Lindsay said. “They’d flip out over _everything_.”

They giggled. It was such a delicious thought.

“Okay. Formal, with tuxes and poufy gowns?”

Lindsay thought for a moment. It was very difficult to picture Brian in a tux.

“Probably not that formal,” she said. “Suits and ties and a simple gown.”

“Bride’s maids? Groom’s men? Flower girl? Ring bearer?”

Lindsay took another moment to think about it. She would love nothing more than to have her sister and Jenny and her other closest friends accompanying her down the aisle. She even knew what color she’d like them to wear. Light peach with white satin pumps. And the idea of Brian standing there with his closest friends! Lindsay hadn’t met any of them, but she was certain that Michael would be the best man, standing there looking as proud as the brother he was to her sweetheart – if not in blood then in soul. And of course her darling five-year old cousin would be the flower girl . . .

But then she started to laugh. She’d be marrying Brian, for heaven’s sake, not one of her parents’ friends’ sons.

“No bride’s maids or groom’s men or flowers girls,” she said, and Jenny pouted. “Although maybe a ring bearer. Brian’s best friend could be the ring bearer. Brian and I would have to include him in some way or another. Michael is the brother Brian never had. I can’t wait to meet him.”

“Alright, alright,” Jenny said. “Let’s get back to the wedding. Would the ceremony be indoors or outdoors?”

“Definitely outdoors,” Lindsay said without even needing to think about it. Brian was such a free spirit. It would be a shame for him to have to spend the most important day of his life indoors.

“Okay, where?”

Lindsay considered the question. Where indeed? It could be in her parents’ garden . . . no, definitely no. She wanted her mother involved as little as possible. How about the house in the Green Mountains? Lindsay would love that, but it might feel strange for Brian – it was important in her life, but not in his . . . at least not yet. She already had plans to take him there so they could start building memories of their own and it would become as special to him as it was to her. What about one of the Carnegie estates? That could be fun . . .

“I’ve got it,” Jenny said. “Fallingwater. Have you been there? It’s amazing and they have weddings all the time.”

Lindsay grabbed Jenny’s hands. “Oh my God,” she cried. “Yes! That’s exactly where we should have it. It’s absolutely gorgeous out there, and the garden is so beautiful! There’s even a lattice archway!”

Jenny jumped up off the bed and pulled Lindsay up with her. “And you’ll have the reception in the barn!”

“Perfect,” Lindsay cried. “My mother will _hate_ it!”

They both collapsed back onto the bed, spilling the Teddy Grahams all over and gasping with laughter.

“What about Brian’s parents?” Jenny asked. “Hopefully they’re cooler than yours – at least your mother, I mean. You’re dad’s totally awesome.”

Lindsay sighed. “Brian doesn’t have a good relationship with his family,” she said. “His dad was abusive, and his mother sounds really cold and uncaring. I haven’t met them, but I think Brian would be happier if they didn’t come.”

Jenny nodded sympathetically. “God knows there’s a whole fucking side of my family I wouldn’t want at my wedding. But no little Miss Gloomy Gloom, what about your bouquet.”

“Peach and yellow roses,” Lindsay said. “With baby’s breath.”

“Stand-up or sit-down meal?”

Lindsay was about to say “sit-down,” but then she imagined her boyfriend stuck at a table with her boring relatives. She giggled. “Stand-up,” she said. “Just wine and hors d’oeuvres.”

“Red or white?”

“Blush, of course. It’s going to be a flawlessly beautiful June day.”

“Wow, I never knew you and God have a private line. If I did, I would’ve asked you to put in a good word for me. I really need to get a good grade in Biology. Okay, what about music? String quartet or a DJ?”

“Definitely a DJ,” Lindsay said. “Brian loves to dance.”

“Mmmmmm,” Jenny said, nodding. “And I’d love to watch him.” She’d met Brian a few times and was a little bit in love with him – or at least in lust.

Lindsay gave her a playful punch in the shoulder. “No ogling my husband,” she said.

Jenny sighed a long, pining sigh. “Alas,” she said. “Why did we outlaw polygamy? Wouldn’t you love to have me as Brian’s second wife? It’d be like being roomies again.”

“No. Not unless we agreed that you and Brian only had sex on February 29th.” 

“Mawr,” Jenny said, curling her fingers into cat claws. “Okay, okay, back to the wedding of the century. White cake or something less traditional?”

“Lemon,” Lindsay replied. “With rose-cream frosting.”

“My, my. Aren’t we going to be the little princess,” Jenny said with a wink. “Now let’s talk honeymoon.”

“Saint Johns – not too crowded and with gorgeous beaches.”

“Ah, I see. You don’t want to share Brian’s body with other beachgoers. You know, Linds, I bet your man wouldn’t be turning just the heads of women.” Jenny waggled an eyebrow.

Lindsay frowned. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Jenny waved her hand in front of Lindsay’s eyes. “Hello,” she said. “The boy’s a walking wet dream for all the fags out there.”

Lindsay did _not_ like the direction the conversation had taken.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said with a clipped tone she hoped Jenny would be able to translate. “Brian is definitely _not_ a homosexual.”

“Maybe not,” Jenny said, ignoring Lindsay’s sudden change. “But I wouldn’t at all be surprised if he’s bi. I mean, come on, Linds! Does he look like a jock to you? Or even a preppy? Your boyfriend is walking the fine line, my dear. It’s a good thing you don’t have a brother because it might not be _you_ he’d end up marrying.”

Jenny was still being playful, but Lindsay had had more than enough.

“Maybe you think you’re being funny, Jen, but you’re not. Brian is nothing other than heterosexual. I should know. After all, it’s me he’s fucking!”

Lindsay clapped a hand over her mouth. Oh my God! Had she just said “fucking”? Jenny was looking at her with astonishment.

“Did you just say ‘fucking’?” she said. “Holy shit, you did! You said ‘fucking’! Lindsay Peterson! You naughty, naughty girl.” She pretended to look appalled, and Lindsay started laughing.

“Brian is a bad influence,” Jenny said. “Hold on to him, girl.”

Lindsay smiled and pulled her roomie close for a hug. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I plan to.”

 

She’d never dreaded the start of summer in her life. In fact, she’d always started dreaming of Vermont as soon as the snow melted. But this year, she dreaded the inevitability of mid-May, and she spent an embarrassing amount of time crying in various bathrooms around campus. Brian was leaving the day after his last exam, which was three days before hers. How on earth was she going to be able to study without her favorite study partner?

“You can stay in the apartment,” Brian told her. “I’m paying the rent through the end of May.”

She smiled weakly at him. “Thanks,” she said. “But what am I going to sit and sleep on?”

“The furniture,” he said. “What? Did you think I’d make you crash on the floor? Silly girl.” He pulled her close and kissed her nose.

“But won’t you need to take everything with you?” she asked. “You’re going to need stuff for your sublet.”

Brian stepped back and then walked to the kitchen. He started putting away the groceries they’d just bought. She watched him. He’d been odd lately. Quiet and withdrawn. She’d figured he was just feeling the way she did about parting, but now she sensed there was something more. She walked to the island and sat down on one of the stools.

“Brian,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer, and she began to wonder if he was going to. He put all the groceries away and wiped down the counters. Then he got a tall glass out of the cabinet, put a couple ice cubes in, filled it to the brim with Jim Beam, threw it back and then poured himself another.

She couldn’t stop her gasp. She’d never seen him drink like that before. She got up and went to him, placing her hand on his arm.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “Did something happen?”

He looked angry, and he wasn’t meeting her eyes. He threw back the second glass of whiskey.

“Come on,” she said, rubbing his arm. “You can tell me. You can always tell me anything.”

He refocused on her and gave her a little, guilty-looking smile.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Hey,” she said, reaching up to cup his face. “You never need to say ‘sorry’ to me . . .”

He closed his eyes and kissed her.

“. . . you do, however, need to tell me the truth. What’s wrong, Brian?”

He sighed and dropped his head as though he’d been defeated by life. “I did some math,” he said. “I can’t afford to live on my own this summer. I’m not going to be able to be a manager at the restaurant in Pittsburgh. I’m going to have to live with my fucking parents.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Jesus, I know I need to save money, but I can’t fucking go back there. It’ll kill me.”

She grabbed his wrists and pulled his hands away from his face.

“You can stay with me,” she said. “You can’t go back there.”

He smiled at her. “Let’s picture that scenario for a moment,” he said. “Me, you and your parents sharing a breakfast of crumpets and tea . . .”

She laughed. “We don’t eat crumpets,” she said. “We eat regular English muffins like everyone else.”

“Okay, then let’s picture this: Me, you, your parents and their country club friends playing croquet on the lawn and drinking mint juleps.”

She punched his shoulder. “You’ve got the most ridiculous, stereotypical view of my life,” she said.

“Stereotypes only exist because they’re based on reality,” he said. “In advertising, you _have_ to think in terms of stereotypes and broad demographics. Sure, there are always exceptions, but you can’t design your marketing campaign to entice the exceptions. They’re wild cards. You have to attract the majority of any given targeted demographic, the people who don’t defy their easy categorizations.”

“This is not an exam,” she said. “You’re obfuscating.”

He grinned. “I know, but I do it so beautifully.”

She laughed. “You do everything beautifully,” she said. “But seriously, Brian. You can stay with me if you want. I’ll just tell my parents to fuck off.”

“Lindsay Peterson,” he said teasingly. “You have quite the potty mouth.”

“I wonder where that comes from,” she said. “Certainly not from hanging out with you.”

“Moi?” he said. “I am the very picture of decorum.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, laughing. “I’ve noticed.”

He grabbed her around the waist and threw her over his shoulder. “I’ll show you decorum,” he said, throwing her down on the bed. “I’ve got a big, huge, throbbbing decorum.” 

She laughed. “You do indeed,” she purred. “How about sharing it with me?”

They were quickly out of their clothes. Brian seized her wrists and held her hands over her head while he kissed her throat and collarbones and breasts. His erection brushed against her belly, leaving trails of warm fluid in its wake.

“How do you want me?” she asked breathlessly

“You don’t have a preference?”

She smiled wickedly. “None at all. Take me how you want me.”

He kissed her and released her hands. “On your knees,” he said. “I wanna fuck you on all fours.”

She wasn’t surprised. That was how they had sex almost all the time these days. She missed the face-to-face intimacy, but she had to admit that doggy-style was the best position if she wanted to come more than once, and who doesn’t want to come more than once?

She rolled over onto her front, and he hauled her hips up so they were lined up with his groin. It felt so dirty! She knew she was completely open to him, but it was okay. He was her Brian. There was nothing she wouldn’t give him.

He entered her and started thrusting immediately, holding her hips and pulling her back to meet his forward thrusts. It was heaven! Her body was completely open to him, ready to accept anything he had to give – or wanted to take. She could smell him – that unique blend of scents that were his alone, and she could hear him – his groans and whispered obscenities, which had freaked her out when he’d first started using them but now only made everything hotter, sexier. 

“Tell me when you’re gonna come,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She laughed because she already had.

“Okay,” he said, chuckling. “Tell me when you’re going to come _again_.”

It didn’t take long. Her body cried out for his, her legs spread, her ass canted in the air, her juices slicking the insides of her thighs . . .

“Brian!” she cried, and he slammed into her, causing her to lose both her breath and every shred of coherency.

“Come,” he growled. “I want to feel you squeeze my dick.”

She came hard, shaking and crying his name over and over.

“There you go,” he said. “Good girl. Now it’s my turn.”

His thrusts lost all control and rhythm as he pounded her ass, his hands gripping her hips so tightly she knew the bruises she already had would be refreshed. She didn’t care. If he wanted to bite her or slap her, she’d happily let him.

“Gonna come,” he grunted. “I’m gonna fucking come.”

And then he did. They’d stopped using condoms when she went on birth control pills, and she felt his semen fill her and then gush out when he pulled free. She hated that they had to part, and she sensed that her body hated the fact that he couldn’t impregnate her. She was ready. Nature was whispering in her ear. _This is the man_ , Nature said. _This is the man who was meant to father your babies_.

He collapsed beside her. The day was hot, and there was no air conditioning in his apartment. All of the windows were open, but it made little difference. Both of them were drenched. Brian lay on his back, and she propped herself on her elbow so she could look down at him. His face glowed beneath a sheen of sweat, and his long eyelashes were clumped together.

 _This would be the perfect time_ , she thought at the back of her mind. _Ask me to marry you_.

He smiled that sweet, closed-lip smile at her and reached up to tuck a damp curl behind her ear.

“Thank you,” he said. “For the offer to stay with you, but I can’t. It . . . it just wouldn’t work, and I think you know that.”

She nodded resignedly. It would be a train wreck in slow, WASPy motion.

“I need to just do this,” he said. “It’ll be okay. I’m going to buy my own car, even though it’ll probably be a piece of shit on wheels. I’ll work as many hours as I can. Maybe I’ll even get a second job. Fuck my parents. Fuck my fucking bitch of a sister . . .”

Lindsay traced his beautiful mouth with her fingertip. “What if he hurts you?” she said. “I’ll fucking kill him if he does.”

He burst out laughing. “Holy shit, what has become of you? First you’re swearing and now you’re threatening to kick my dad’s ass!”

She laughed, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t serious. She’d do a prison sentence if it would stop the old bastard from hurting her beloved.

“Don’t worry,” he said gently, reaching up to touch her face. “I’m not a skinny little kid anymore, and he knows it. Don’t get the wrong impression; my dad isn’t a badass. He’s a fucking coward who beats up women and children. If he does so much as touch me, I’ll break his fucking face. Now, let’s just forget all this shit and go out to eat. Fucking you makes me hungry.”

He grinned at her and pulled her down for a kiss.

 

She took one look at Michael Novotny, Brian’s soul-brother, and saw instantly that he hated her guts. 

She’d had no idea that he was coming, so when she jogged up the stairs and opened the door to her and Brian’s apartment, she had no idea who he was or where he came from or what the heck he was doing there.

“Hi,” she said cautiously. “Uhm, who are you?”

He crossed his arms and glared at her. “I’m Michael,” he said. “Brian’s best friend.”

She immediately brightened. “Oh my God,” she said. “You’re Michael! Brian didn’t tell me you were coming to town! He talks about you all the time. It is _so_ great to meet you. My name is Lindsay.”

She didn’t know what she’d expected but not that Michael would just stand there with his arms crossed glaring at her. “Yeah, I know what your name is,” he said.

A very awkward silence ensued. 

“Uhm, do you want something to drink?” she asked. “There’s water or juice or pop.”

“I am perfectly capable of getting my own drink. I _used_ to come here every other weekend,” Michael said. “In fact, Brian already got me one.”

“Oh,” she said, taken aback by his hostile tone. “Wonderful. Would you like something to eat?”

“No,” he said.

Okay. She gave him a friendly smile. “I’m . . . I’m just going to change into my shorts,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

She went over to the bed and retrieved her shorts from the drawer Brian had cleared out for her use. When she walked past Michael on her way to the bathroom, she could feel a seething _something_ emanating from his whole body. He was practically vibrating.

While she was in the bathroom, Brian came home. She could hear him clumping up the stairs with his familiar tread. She smiled. You know you’re close to someone when you can recognize the sound of their footsteps.

“Hey there, Mikey,” Brian said. “Why are you just standing there looking useless? I thought you were going to help me pack up my shit and put it in storage. I already rented the U-Haul.”

“Of course, I’m going to help you,” Michael replied. “It’s just . . .”

“. . . it’s just what?”

“Oh, never mind,” Michael said. “It’s your life, Brian. Do what you want with it.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Brian sounded annoyed.

“It’s just that . . . Brian . . .”

Lindsay pressed her ear against the bathroom door. She still couldn’t hear what Michael was saying, although she suspected it might be about her.

“Fuck you, Mikey,” Brian said loud enough for her to hear. “I told you I had a girlfriend. Deal with it.”

“Deal with it?” Michael replied. “ _Deal with it?_ You want me to deal with the fact you have a girlfriend?”

Lindsay heard the slam of a cabinet door and the unmistakable sound of ice cubes falling in a glass. Brian was drinking.

“Jesus, Brian,” Michael said. “It’s fucking ten in the morning . . .”

“And you’re fucking driving me to drink,” Brian snapped. “This is not your fucking business, Mikey.”

“Since when are you not my fucking business?” Michael shouted. “You’ve been my business for five fucking years!”

“Yeah?” Brian said. “Well, maybe I’ve changed. Maybe getting away from the Pitts and getting some fucking perspective has made me see things differently!”

“Oh, this is different alright,” Michael yelled back. “Where’s the Brian Kinney I used to know?”

Lindsay couldn’t take it anymore. No one talked to her boyfriend like that – not even his best friend.

“So,” she said in her primmest, most insincere country-club voice as she emerged from the bathroom. “How lovely it is that you came to visit us, Michael. I’m so thrilled we’ll have the opportunity to get acquainted. As I said, Brian has told me so very much about you. I’ve only just met you, but I feel as though I’ve known you for years.” She walked up to him and air-kissed both his cheeks.

Michael boggled at her, and Brian laughed.

“Don’t fuck with her, Mikey,” he said. “She will kick your blue-collar, community-college ass up and down the street. Just warning you.” 

Michael looked at him with a desperate, pleading expression. “Brian,” he said in what almost sounded like a whine.

“Mikey,” Brian replied, mimicking Michael’s tone. But then his expression turned serious. “I said ‘deal,’ Michael. And I meant it.”

Michael looked up at the ceiling and for a second Lindsay thought he might be blinking away tears.

What the heck was his problem??

 

It wasn’t what one would call “fun,” but Lindsay had an agreeable time that evening. First they went to Brian’s favorite bar where he bought Michael a beer, Lindsay a glass of wine (she’d stopped with the “I don’t drink” thing a long time ago) and himself a glass of Beam. She watched Brian and Michael play a game of pool, during which Michael seemed to lighten up a bit, and then they went to a Thai restaurant for dinner. Michael grumbled about going to “a diner or something” instead, but he ended up getting what Brian got and pretended to like it. It was true that Lindsay was a little bit buzzed, but she thought it was still kind of sweet. Forget just brothers – Michael was clearly the _younger_ brother Brian had never had. 

After dinner, they walked around the campus. Michael seemed awed as they passed the dorms brimming with excitement (most students had finished their finals) and the fraternities with all there brash inanities spilling through open windows and doors. It was a Saturday night, so people were all over the place in gaggles of drunken idiots, laughing and singing and making complete fools of themselves. There were carts set up in front of every dorm selling such delicacies as fries smothered in cheese and ketchup, cones of soft-serve ice cream wobbling under their own weight, and tiny hamburgers that the drunkest of boys tried to stuff in their mouths five at time – only to barf them up later. 

“Ah, higher education,” Brian said, throwing his arm over Michael’s shoulders. “See what you’re missing? This is what I pay half a year’s salary at Pizza Hut for.”

“Except that you have a full scholarship. What’s there left to pay for?”

“Uhm, let’s see, only the necessities of life: food, rent, utilities, clothes, Beam.”

Lindsay stopped dead in her tracks. “You have a full scholarship?” she said. “Brian, why didn’t you tell me?”

Michael smirked at her. “I guess he still has _some_ secrets,” he said.

Brian shrugged, trying to make it seem like no big deal. “I graduated top of my class from high school,” he said. “Penn gave me a scholarship. It’s just for tuition. It doesn’t cover housing or meals or anything.”

Lindsay just stared at him. For a fleeting instant, she wondered if she knew him at all. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” she asked. “And why if you’ve got a scholarship do you need to live with your parents?”

Brian dropped his arm from Michael’s shoulders and started walking quickly away from them.

“What the heck?” Lindsay said. She felt slightly sick.

“I guess you don’t know _everything_ about him,” Michael said (again) triumphantly. “And you never will.”

Lindsay swallowed and looked away. In a minute, she was going to ditch them both and go running to the safety of her and Jenny’s dorm.

But then Brian stopped and stood stalk-still. “Neither of you get it,” he said without turning back to look at them. “It’s not about tuition or even living with my fucking parents, it’s about my future. I’m saving every fucking penny I can to get the fuck out of here. I’m bigger than Pittsburgh. I’m bigger than fucking Pennsylvania. I’m bound for New York City!”

He spun around, his arms held up high. “Just watch me,” he cried, walking backwards. “Both of you! I’m going to be rich! I’m going to be a big, fat, fucking success! I’m going to live in a penthouse, and drive a Mercedes and wear Armani suits like other people wear fucking Brooks Brothers. I’m going to drink the most expensive whiskeys and eat at the most expensive restaurants and make every motherfucker who looks at me jealous . . .”

Lindsay and Michael had stopped, their mouths hanging open with astonishment at Brian’s outburst.

Brian threw back his head and laughed manically at the sky. “Fuck you, God!” he yelled. “I will have everything I want without one fucking prayer to you! I don’t need your fucking help! I’m Brian Kinney, for fuck sake! Who the fuck are _you_?”

“Brian!” Michael shouted. “Knock it off.”

The people passing them gave all three of them strange looks. Brian met their eyes defiantly. “Gotta fucking problem?” he asked three boys in football jackets. Fortunately, they just ignored him.

“I _knew_ this was what was going to happen,” Michael said as he and Lindsay started trotting after Brian who was in his full long-strides mode. Apparently they were now in cahoots with Michael mumbling and Lindsay trying to keep up in her heels.

“That what was going to happen?” she asked breathlessly. “This isn’t a huge, big deal. He gets like this sometimes . . .”

“Don’t try to tell _me_ how he gets,” Michael replied, but there was more concern than venom in his voice. “I know him better than you _ever_ will.”

She sighed. This was not how she’d hoped her first encounter with Michael would go. “Well, have you considered that maybe _I_ know things about him that _you’ll_ never know? College changes you,” she said. “You’re away from your family and your high school friends; you’re free to recreate yourself . . .”

Michael snorted ruefully. “Maybe some of what you say is true, but there’s only so much a person can reinvent.”

She stopped. He went forward a few steps and turned around. Brian had long ago disappeared into the night.

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” she asked. “It seems to me like you don’t _want_ him to change – that you want him to remain exactly like he was, frozen in time. Well, get this through your head. Brian is free to make his own decisions and live his own life without having to check in with you first.”

Michael scrubbed his face in irritation and even stamped his foot, which would have been cute except it wasn’t. “Goddamn it,” he said, his voice full of frustration. “There are _so_ many things I could tell you, but he’d _kill_ me if I did and would probably never speak to me again.”

She crossed her arms and regarded him coldly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “But I know for a fact that if there was something important about himself, then Brian would’ve told me . . .”

“Like he told you about his scholarship. Did he also tell you he spent a month in juvvie hall for busting a star football player’s fingers? Did he tell you . . . did he tell you he had his first sexual experience when he was fourteen? Did he tell you that a couple times he stole cars and took them for joyrides? Did he tell you he started drinking when he was twelve and smoking pot when he was thirteen? Did he tell you that he’s ga. . .”

Suddenly Brian was there behind Michael, clapping a hand over his mouth.

“I think we’ve had enough ‘truth,’” he made air quotes “for this evening,” he said, pressing his cheek against Michael’s. “Let’s go home. Linds, I’m sorry, but would you mind staying in your dorm tonight? There’s really only room for two in the apartment.”

Lindsay nodded and wasn’t sure if she’d imagined the smirk that crossed Michael’s face. She hadn’t known anything about the stuff Michael had told her, and she was feeling stunned and a little sick. But she refused to concede the fight. She raised her chin proudly and looked Michael square in the eyes.

“Like I said earlier,” she said. “People change; they grow up – even if their so-called ‘friends’ don’t want them to. That’s life. Like Brian said, ‘deal with it.’”

She walked over, cupped the back of Brian’s head and pulled him close for a kiss. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “Sleep well, sweetheart.” Then she turned on her heel and walked away without looking back. 

“Sweetheart?” she heard Michael squeak. “ _Sweetheart?_ "

If Brian replied, Lindsay didn’t hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you probably have guessed, the end of this chapter is very deliberate. As we know, Lindsay eventually turns into yet another person in Brian's life who doesn't want him to change. He has to be "Brian Kinney" - a man closed-off to romantic experiences and commitments. As long as he's "Brian Kinney," Lindsay doesn't have to feel jealous, and she can still hold out the wistful hope that maybe, someday, the two of them can get back together. If someone else comes around to fill that role, it's the end, for Lindsay, of a life-defining dream.
> 
> By the way, I'm being devilish. Fallingwater, the place where Lindsay would like to marry Brian, is where Brian and Justin were going to be married. I'm evil like that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian finally says the three words Lindsay's been waiting for, and he means them - and will _always_ mean them. But the words don't mean what Lindsay thinks they do - and wants them to. Meanwhile, Brian's ruse is unraveling at an ever-quickening pace. Thank God.

Secrets. Like honey bees find flowers, secrets find each other and then return to the cacophonous hive where they tell of their discoveries. They sting. They leave welts and, if the conditions are right, they can kill. Lies. Like quicksand engulfs you, lies are bottomless. The more you struggle to escape, the deeper you slip. Imagine drowning in dryness, your mouth full of sand, your scream muffled and then silenced. Truth. Like a knife through a stick of soft butter or a rotting fruit, truth doesn’t give a shit what carnage it leaves in its wake. It doesn’t care that it might kill you, and don’t bother trying to defend yourself. No matter where you hide, it will find you. It is not nice. It will show no mercy.

Secrets, lies and truths are closing in on Lindsay. Such is the price of loving a coward.

 

“Lindsay,” her mother said, as she peered through a curtain in the dining room. “What in heaven’s name is he driving? I’m not sure if I want you driving around in something like that. It doesn’t look safe.”

Lindsay bit her lip to keep from laughing. If her parents had a problem with Brian’s car, she could only imagine the problems they’ll have with Brian himself.

Her mother dropped the curtain with a sigh. “This is all very juvenile,” she said. “One might expect such things from high school students, not college juniors. Your sister got all of this foolishness out of her system before she started at Bryn Mawr. If you must date inappropriate . . . men, then you should’ve done it years ago. Are you trying to shock us because if you are you’ll get no such reaction. I’m not shocked, just disappointed, and I’m sure your father is too.”

Lindsay could no longer stop herself from laughing. Her mother always loved to mention the fact that her sister went to Bryn Mawr and hadn’t even applied to a “state school.” Such a shame that an all-girls’ college was insufficient to prevent her from having two – count them – two unplanned pregnancies. If only their mother . . . but Lindsay cared too much for her sister to trade her secret in exchange for nothing more than a few minutes of gasping and pearl-clutching from their mother. No matter how satisfying that would be.

As for them being disappointed? Too bad. Nothing her mother could say would make her ashamed of her love for Brian.

There was a knock on the front door and Lindsay rushed to answer it; not because she didn’t want her mother to get there first, but because she couldn’t wait to be in Brian’s arms again. They’d been back in Pittsburgh for almost two weeks, and they hadn’t had a chance to be together. It was the longest time they’d ever been apart since they first met.

She flung open the door and then flung herself at the love her life. Brian laughed with surprise.

“I see you missed me,” he said, kissing her.

“Only every second of every minute of every day we’ve been apart.” She held his face between her hands and returned his kiss tenfold. 

“Ahem,” she heard her mother say. Lindsay still had her arms around Brian’s neck when she turned.

“Mom, this is Brian Kinney,” she said. “Brian, this is my mother.”

Brian’s lips twitched in an enigmatic smile. Lindsay guessed it stemmed from the hours she’d spent railing about her mother in his presence.

“Nice to meet you,” her mother said stiffly, shaking his hand.

“Hi,” her dad said more amiably. “Nice to meet the young man our little girl can’t stop talking about.” He offered his hand, and Brian shook it.

“Likewise,” he said and then turned to Lindsay. “I’m starved. Let’s get out of here.”

She winced to herself. With seven words, Brian had sealed his fate with her mother – and possibly even her father. Both of them highly valued polite chit-chat. She blushed when her mother glared at her.

“Okay,” she said taking Brian’s hand. “See you guys later.”

“We want you home by eleven!” her mother called after them.

“ _Eleven?_ ” Brian said, laughing. “How old are you? Sixteen?”

She rolled her eyes, but she knew she’d have to obey them. They were already apoplectic about her decision to go to their home in the Green Mountains for only two weeks in late August.

 _Lindsay, sweetheart,_ her dad had said sadly. _What’s happened? You’ve changed so much. Vermont is our special place. Even your sister will be there this year_.

 _Only because she lost her job,_ Lindsay had thought, but she nonetheless felt sad for her father. Her mother could screech until the cows came home, but one sad look from her dad could break her heart . . .

. . . but not as much of the prospect of a summer without Brian.

They went to a Chinese restaurant and then to a movie. It was definitely a _date_ date, which felt weird after having lived together for two months. Brian seemed tired but otherwise at ease. He told her about how shitty his job was at the new Pizza Hut and how much work the “new” car was.

“By the end of the summer, you’ll be a mechanic,” Lindsay said teasingly.

Brian snorted. “Yup, that’s me, the veritable grease-monkey. Brian Kinney’s Automotive, we fix both domestic and foreign models.” He laughed longer than the joke deserved, and the laugh was oddly rueful.

After the movie they made out in the parking lot and she gave him a blow job. He fingered her but the angle wasn’t right, and she couldn’t have an orgasm.

“Are you going to come?” Brian asked after a while.

She made an apologetic face. “Not like this,” she replied, but then something occurred to her. If they moved to the backseat, she’d be able to lean against the door, and he could get between her legs. He’d already come, and she knew it took a long time before he could get hard again. She’d pleasured him with her mouth, maybe she could get him to return the favor.

They’d never engaged in cunnalingus before – he’d never volunteered, and she’d never asked. She’d been far too embarrassed, but there seemed to be no reason to be embarrassed anymore. After all, before they’d returned to Pittsburgh, he’d asked her if they could have anal sex, and she’d agreed. It’d hurt at first, but after a while, it started to feel good and then it went from good to amazing. She’d even had an orgasm. They’d done it several times in the following forty-eight hours. It was clear that Brian enjoyed it and fortunately she did too. Once you’ve had anal sex, cunnalingus seemed like no big deal.

They were kissing. Lindsay turned her head so she could whisper in his ear.

“Sweetheart,” she said. “I have an idea . . . how’d you like to . . .”

But she couldn’t continue. What term was she going to use? “Cunnalingus” was too medical. “Eating one out” sounded too slutty. “Lick my clitoris” sounded kind of silly . . .

“Like to do what?” he asked, sounding amused.

“Uhm,” she wondered if he could feel the heat of her blush.

“”What’s ‘uhm’?” he asked. 

“Uhm, I’d like . . . well if there’s enough room in the backseat . . . I’d like it very much if you’d . . . if you’d . . . lick me.”

She’d felt him smiling against her lips, but the smile vanished in the wake of her words. She felt a wave of mortification.

“You mean your pussy.” It wasn’t a question.

She nodded, too embarrassed to answer.

He was silent, and his body had frozen.

“It’s okay,” she started babbling. “If you . . . I mean, this isn’t the most comfortable environment. If you wanted to . . . to try it when we have a bed . . . that’s totally fine. I totally understand . . . .” She stopped talking when she realized there was a possibility she might start crying out of sheer humiliation.

Brian still didn’t speak. Eventually he cleared his throat. “No,” he said with a weird, distant-sounding voice. “No, it’s okay. I mean, it’s only fair. It’s just . . . I don’t know. I’ve had a couple drinks . . .” He sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. “Fuck it,” he said under his breath.

Lindsay quickly pulled down her shirt and went hunting for her panties. Forget maybe crying, she was . . . and in big, mortifying, gulping sobs. 

“Hey,” he said, reaching out to touch her face. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m being an asshole. I know it wasn’t easy for you to ask. Look, let’s do it . . .”

She squeezed her eyes shut and got a tissue from her purse, blowing her nose as discreetly as possible.

“I don’t want to force you or anything,” she said icily.

“You wouldn’t be,” he said. “I swear. I just . . . it’s just that I’ve never done it before, and I don’t know how good I’ll be. And I’ve . . . like I said, I’ve had a few drinks.”

“I didn’t know how to give a blowjob,” she said. “But obviously my performances have been acceptable.”

He smiled and kissed her. “More than acceptable,” he said. “Okay, let’s do this. Another one of our shared firsts.”

It took an embarrassingly long time to get situated in a way that made things possible. Finally, she had her skirt bunched around her waist and her legs spread as wide as she could. At some point she’d stopped feeling strange and was now dying for the touch of his tongue. Other than wanting him inside her, she’d never wanted anything more. She was so wet!

Brian positioned himself so that his head was between her legs. She could feel his breath on her pussy. He used his fingers to open her up. She held her breath, her heart beating in her ears so loudly that he must’ve been able to hear it. She was just about to reach down and cup her hand against the back of his head, when suddenly several things happened all at once.

Brian sat up so suddenly that he hit his head, said “Shit! Fuck,” shoved the door open and vomited on the pavement.

Even when he was done throwing up, he didn’t speak or even move and neither did she. Time had frozen. In the wake of his retching, the night seemed completely silent. Even the crickets seemed to have stopped chirping.

After a few minutes, Brian dropped his face into his hands, and just sat there with his head bowed and shoulders slumped. She reached out and gently touched his back.

“It’s okay,” she said softly. “You had too much to drink. It’s alright.”

Except for a slight nod, he neither moved nor spoke.

“I guess I did,” he said after a silence that was so long she wondered if he might be crying. “I guess I just didn’t realize it.”

“Poor baby,” she said soothingly, upset that he was so upset.

He huffed out a weak laugh. “Yeah, poor baby. How many guys puke when offered the chance to eat their girlfriends' pussies?” 

“It wasn’t that,” she said firmly. “You had too much to drink. That’s it. Don’t . . . don’t read stuff into it. It’s no big deal.”

He huffed out another rueful laugh. “No big deal,” he said tonelessly.

“That’s right,” she said even more firmly. “It’s no big deal.” He hadn’t turned around so all she could do was wrap her arms around him and lay her head against his back. He took one of her hands and squeezed it hard.

“C’mon,” she said eventually. “Take me home. My coach is about to turn into a pumpkin anyway. It’s too early in the summer to test my mother’s wafer-thin patience.”

He straightened. “Can I have one of your tissues?” he asked. She handed him one and he wiped off his mouth. “Ugh, half-digested Chow Mein looks pretty gross.”

She laughed. “I’m sure. If you don’t mind, I won’t try to provide a second opinion and just take your word for it.”

They both got out and straightened their clothes.

“This sucks,” he said. “I feel like we’re regressing from sharing an apartment to fucking in a car.”

She couldn’t agree more.

They chatted amiably as he drove her back to her parents’ house, and once they were there, he gave her a little kiss.

“Sorry again about tonight,” he said and she shushed him with her finger.

“No apologies, no regrets.”

He cocked his head and regarded her closely. “I like that,” he said. “No apologies, no regrets.”

“It would make a good motto,” she said. “I wonder how it would sound in Latin? _Nec precibus, nec penituit_ , perhaps? We could even design you a crest.”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “How’d I ever get along without you,” he said. His embrace was crushing.

She pulled back far enough so she could look him in the eyes. “You didn’t,” she replied.

 

She only saw Michael once over the course of the whole summer. Brian was in an odd mood and decided to take them both to the bar his father hung out at so his “dad could meet Sonny-boy’s gal.” Why Michael was along was a mystery – apparently to him as well.

Brian and Lindsay had spent the afternoon together hanging out at one of the swimming holes. To her alarm, he’d brought a joint and smoked it all when Lindsay declined to try it. He’d also brought a six-pack of beer from which she drank one. The sun had been mercilessly and they’d both gotten burned. They went swimming a couple times, even using the dubious looking rope swing.

It’d been fun despite the fact that Brian had been drinking and getting high. But he was in a good mood and kissed her a lot.

“Everyone here’s jealous of me,” he said. “I’ve got the prettiest girl hands-down.”

Given the glances they kept getting, it wasn’t just her that attracted attention. “And they’re jealous of _me_ ,” she said, propping herself on her elbow and running a finger from his chin to his belly button. “I’ve got the handsomest boy hands-down.”

He smiled lazily up at her. “In fact,” he said. “You’re so damn pretty, I think it’s time my dad met you.”

She frowned. To say she hadn’t expected to hear him say that was an understatement.

“But I thought you hate your dad,” she said.

He shrugged a shoulder. “I do,” he replied. “Which is why I want him to meet you. Show the motherfucker he isn’t the only one who can pull a babe.”

Lindsay couldn’t help her little gasp. “Your father is cheating on your mother!”

“Has been for years.” Brian sat up and opened another beer despite the fact it must be warm. “Right under her nose, too. Although what woman would want to bother with him is a mystery. Not to say my mom doesn’t deserve it. She probably hasn’t given him some since she conceived me.” He laughed and swigged down the rest of his beer.

Lindsay had been trying to ignore it, but if she was candid with herself, she’d admit his drinking (and apparently pot-smoking as well) had increased dramatically since the summer started. It didn’t sit well with her. What if he got in an accident or something? What if he ODed (could someone OD on pot?)? She couldn’t bear the idea of anything happening to him.

He finished the beer, filled the can with water and flung it into the bushes by the side of the river. She winced. She didn’t even throw peanut shells out a car window. He stood and reached out a hand to help her up.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s call Mikey. He’ll have fun. My dad can’t stand him; told me once he thinks Mikey's a fairy.” He laughed. “My dad, the fucking rocket scientist.”

Lindsay froze in the middle of pulling on her jeans. “Michael’s a homosexual?” she said, astonished.

“Gay,” Brian replied. “A queer, a fag. ‘Homosexual’ sounds like a fucking textbook.”

But Lindsay wasn’t paying attention to his semantics lesson. Michael was gay? How come she hadn’t noticed?

"He doesn’t _seem_ to be a homo . . . I mean, he doesn’t seem gay,” she said.

Brian’s laugh was rueful. “And what, pray tell, does a ‘homosexual’ seem like?”

His tone was hostile. He’d never spoken to her like that. She gasped and turned her head as though he’d slapped her.

“Does a fag wear pink and mince around like a fucking prissy? Does a fag hang out in public places wearing a long raincoat? Does a fag walk around with his ass hanging out of a pair of leather chaps?”

She turned to look him and raised her chin. “I wouldn’t know what a ‘fag’ does. I’ve never met one – except apparently Michael.”

Brian clearly thought that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her waist and spun her around, kissing her nose when they came to a stop.

“You’re so fucking sweet and innocent,” he said. “I love you.”

Her eyes must’ve turned the size of saucers because he started laughing again.

“I love you, too!” she cried. The damn had finally burst; she could finally tell him everything. “My God, Brian, I love you so much. I loved you the second I first saw you. You are the most amazing, wonderful, smart, funny . . .”

“. . . don’t forget ‘stunningly handsome’ . . .”

“I was just going to say that,” she said laughing and punching him in the shoulder. If she didn’t stop grinning, her face was going to split open.

She grabbed him and kissed him as hard as she could. She’d all but given up the hope that he’d ever say those three words to her.

“Ow, ow!” he said. “My sunburn. Ouch!”

She pulled away. He’d always been beautiful to her, but he was even more so now.

For a while all the talk about “fags” was forgotten, at least as far as Lindsay was concerned. But as soon as Brian stopped the car in front of Michael’s house and laid on the horn, she remembered. How awkward! Now that she knew Michael was gay, she wasn’t quite sure how to talk to him.

“Christ, Brian,” Michael said as he slid into the backseat. “Did you need to wake the dead? You’re lucky Ma didn’t come out and smack you upside the head.”

Brian stepped on the gas before Michael even had the door closed.

“Hiya, Mikey,” he said, looking in the rearview mirror. “How’s that typing class you’re taking?”

“Fuck you,” Michael replied.

It was then that Lindsay realized that if she didn’t say something, Michael was going to ignore her presence completely.

“Hi, Michael,” she said, turning around to look at him. “How is your summer going?”

“Just dandy,” he said. “Brian, where the hell did you get that sunburn? It looks really bad. We should stop at a drugstore to get something for it. You don’t want to end up with skin cancer or something.”

“Mikey likes to look out for my well-being,” Brian said, looking at Lindsay and completely ignoring Michael.

“There’s no ‘like’ about it,” Michael grumbled. ‘It’s a necessity. Kind of like brushing your teeth or taking the garbage out. If it wasn’t for me, you’d probably be dead by now.”

Brian turned to look at Lindsay again. “Actually, he’s probably right.”

“Or in an insane asylum.”

Lindsay frowned. Yes, Brian was a free spirit, but suicidal and insane? Definitely not! Maybe Michael didn’t know his best friend as much as he thought . . .

. . . then it hit her. Maybe Michael felt more than friendship. Maybe he was in love with Brian!

The thought made her feel slightly ill for reasons she couldn’t quite name.

“So where the hell are we going?” Michael asked. “After we stop at a drugstore, I mean.”

“We, Mikey, are going to my dad’s water hole. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“No,” Michael replied. “It doesn’t sound fun at all. Brian, what are you high on?”

Brian’s laugh wasn’t exactly pleasant. “Life, Mikey! I’m high on fucking life.”

Suddenly Lindsay wanted to go home, and she would’ve said so but for the fact that Brian was turning into a parking lot surrounded by chain link fencing that drooped in places.

“Ah,” he said pointing. “The family car. So many fond memories. Jack drunk, Joan silent, Claire crying . . .”

“And you?” Michael said, sounding like he already knew the answer.

“And me wanting to take a fucking Uzi and mow ‘em all down.”

Lindsay reached out and placed a hand on Brian’s thigh. “Do you think this is a good idea?” she asked. “You seem to be in a strange mood?”

“Seeing my old man is _never_ a good idea,” Brian said. “But, hey, we’re here. Let’s go in and have a drink with the old bastard.”

Lindsay took a deep breath; she’d never said no to Brian about anything, and she felt very uncomfortable doing so now when he was behaving so oddly.

“Brian, sweetheart,” she said. “I think I’d prefer to wait in the car if that’s okay.”

He turned toward her, his beautiful mouth curled in a sneer. “Hell, no that’s not okay. You’re the reason why we’re here, _sweetheart_.” The word sounded ugly on his tongue.

“Brian,” Michael said. “C’mon. She didn’t do anything. Let’s go somewhere and get something to eat. I bet part of the problem is that you’re hungry and have been drinking on an empty stomach in the heat. You’re probably dehydrated as hell . . .”

Brian moved so quickly that Lindsay didn’t even have time to react.

“I am _not_ hungry,” he said, grabbing Michael by the collar. “I am not dehydrated. I just want to see my old man. Got a problem with that?”

Lindsay was amazed when Michael merely glared at him and swatted his hand aside. “Yeah, I’ve got a problem with that. I can’t believe you’re letting him get to you _again_ . . .”

But Brian clearly wasn’t listening.

“What’s so wrong with wanting to introduce my dear old dad to my girlfriend?”

“Jesus,” Michael said. “You’re going to let that stupid remark bother you? He was drunk. This is ridiculous!”

Lindsay was very unhappy. “What’s going on?” she asked pleadingly. “Brian, I’ve never seen you like this . . .”

“You tell her, Mikey,” Brian said. “I’ve gotta take a piss.” He got out of the car, went over to the brick wall of the bar and started to urinate.

“What is he talking about?” Lindsay asked. “Please tell me, Michael.”

Michael sighed and scrubbed his face. “For some stupid reason, he decided to go bowling with his dad last night, and at one point, his dad asked if he was a . . . a faggot.”

Lindsay swallowed. Why did _everything_ seem to be about homosexuality these days?

“So now we’re here – with you – so he can prove that he’s not.”

Michael sighed and looked out the window. “This whole thing is fucking ridiculous,” he said, sounding as though he was talking to himself. “He’s always going on about not giving a shit what people think, but then he gets upset whenever his dad says anything to him. It’s like . . . it’s like . . . what was that experiment with the dogs?”

“Pavlov’s dogs,” she said. “Conditioned response.”

“Yeah, that,” Michael said. “His dad says something and right on cue, Brian flips out. I wish he’d just learn to ignore it, but he never does. He can’t.”

Brian walked back still zipping up his jeans. “C’mon, you two. Chop, chop. We need to get in there before he gets too drunk to remember this in the morning.” He thumped the hood of his car with his fist.

Michael sighed a long-suffering sigh and got out of the car. “After we have _one_ drink, can we go get something to eat?”

Brian wrapped his arm around Michael’s neck and rubbed the top of his head with his knuckles. “After we do this, we’ll go anywhere you want,” he said. “I promise. Even if it’s Pizza Hut.”

He let Michael go and came over to the passenger-side door. He opened it and offered Lindsay his hand.

“Ready to meet the other Mr. Kinney – the _original_ Mr. Kinney?”

Lindsay wiped the tears from her eyes, and suddenly Brian – _her_ Brian – returned.

“Hey, don’t cry,” he said softly. “I’m sorry . . . I just. Jesus, I can’t explain it. Can we just do this? Like I said, one drink and then were leaving.”

She nodded, and he kissed her.

“Remind me again why I’m part of this fucking charade?” Michael asked.

“You’re my memory bank,” Brian said. “I need you to remember this so you can remind me when I get too full of myself what a fucking asshole I am.”

Brian wrapped his arm tightly around Lindsay’s waist and started walking to the door while Michael trotted after them.

Lindsay could feel every eye in the place look at her when they walked in. A couple old men even stood up and nodded at her. She looked at Brian. He had the biggest grin on his face, and there was a definite swagger in his step she’d never seen before. He headed straight to a poker table in the back. As they approached, one of the men facing them nodded to the man across from him. The man turned around just as the three of them walked up.

“Jesus, Sonny-boy!” he exclaimed. The man, whom Lindsay deducted was Mr. Kinney stood so quickly he almost knocked over his chair. Brian grabbed it for him.

“Hey, pop, we were in the neighborhood and thought we’d stop by. This is Lindsay, my girlfriend, and you already know Michael.”

Mr. Kinney didn’t respond. His eyes were fixed on Lindsay. He held out his hand. “Jack,” he said, “Jack Kinney. My goodness, you’re a looker.”

The men at the table snickered and rolled their eyes. “Smooth talker, aren’t ya, Kinney?”

“Yeah,” said another. “Can’t you see this gal’s got class? Not bad, Brian.”

The man nodded at Brian, but Brian didn’t nod back. His face was stony and his eyes were fixed on his father. They stared at each other . . . until Mr. Kinney looked away. Lindsay could feel Brian’s body relax slightly.

“Time for a beer, Sonny-boy?” Mr. Kinney asked, gesturing to an empty table. He took Lindsay’s arm to accompany her and then pulled out her chair. She looked at Brian’s face. It was still stony except for a contemptuous twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“A pitcher!” Mr. Kinney called. “And a glass of sherry for the lovely lady.”

When their drinks arrived, Mr. Kinney raised his glass and looked around the bar. “To the beautiful colleen,” he said. “And to my son, the luckiest bastard in Pittsburgh.” Everyone cheered and raised their glasses.

Brian’s arm was around Lindsay’s waist. It had been since they’d gotten out of the car. His fist clenched her shirt like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. She reached under the table and laid her hand on top of his, and then, on a whim, she glanced at Michael. His eyes looked sad . . . sad and much older than his nineteen years.

 _What have you seen?_ She wanted to ask him. _What do you see now?_ But she knew she never would. She was starting to think she might not like the answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Brian seems like an asshole. But he's a kid with some serious issues. Give him a bit of a break :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has their breaking points, including Brian and Lindsay. As for Michael? He didn't reach his until Brian showed up on his doorstep accusing him of "infecting" Justin. But that's Michael and his unshakable devotion (and lack of self-esteem). Fortunately for her, Lindsay's a very different person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Protect me from what I want  
> Protect me from what I want  
> Protect me from what I want  
> Protect me  
> Protect me
> 
> ~Placebo

When does true, unwavering love become the annihilation of the self? When does the love of your life become a vampire glutting on your soul? Is there a line that gets crossed or is it an ever expanding boundary of the barely-endurable – pain like spilled milk spreading until surface tension stops it. If you walk away, have you broken a vow to, not just him, but to yourself, a vow to weather every storm together? Not long ago, you said that you’d love him forever, that nothing could ever part you from him. But what if he becomes a cancer gnawing on the bones of your happiness? What if he becomes a lesion that won’t heal? Do you stay? Do you crouch down in the trenches, in the mud and blood and the screams of the dying? Or do you stand up, take a deep breath, wipe the dirt off your hands and say “good-bye”?

Such was the choice left to Lindsay in the wake of Brian's betrayal.

 

Both of their names weren’t going to be on the lease, but they went apartment shopping together anyway. Lindsay had pleaded with Brian to let her pay half the rent considering how much time she’d be at his place, but he was adamant that he’d take care of it. She was disappointed, not only because she wanted to help him financially but because it would . . . well, to be honest, it would give her a sense of greater security. Not that she thought they were going to break up! It would just be nice, that’s all. Their names together on a legal document.

They both wanted to find something similar to the place he’d had the year before – open, airy and spacious – but in the end the only place they didn’t absolutely hate was a two bedroom apartment on the second floor of a three-story house in (again) what her mother would call “not a very nice place.” There was a rarely-frequented tattoo parlor on the corner and about five liquor stores within easy walking distance, but the apartment itself was clean (for the most part), didn’t smell of pot, cat urine and patchouli incense, and there were storm windows (a real luxury in the “student ghetto”). There was even a new toilet! The one major problem (which had almost resulted in Brian’s veto) was that the linoleum flooring in the kitchen and bathroom was curled up in the corners and peeling, and there was dirt and animal hair stuck to the glue.

“Ugh!” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Who lives like this?”

She’d laughed fondly and kissed his cheek. By now, she’d decided that a lot of Brian’s fastidiousness came from having grown up in the most unwelcoming, anal-retentive household ever. Mrs. Kinney clearly spent her days doing nothing except going to church and cleaning the few pieces of furniture she allowed to “clutter up” the place. It was the coldest place Lindsay had ever spent time in. Nobody seemed to actually live there. There was never anything on the kitchen counters except for a gleaming toaster and three glass canisters containing sugar, flour and rice. There were no photographs hung up with silly magnets on the refrigerator like there were at her house. There was no mail sitting on the kitchen table, just a vase of light-yellow artificial flowers atop a beige doily. The tiled floor was an uninspired hue, and on top of an armoire that displayed old-fashion fussy-looking china sat a classic statue of the Virgin Mary, her sky blue vestments providing some much-needed color.

The other rooms were no different. The living room contained a beige and pea-green plaid sofa and matching armchair, a gleaming coffee table with the most recent copy of _Reader’s Digest_ and a small bowl of wrapped peppermint candies sitting on it, and a T.V. on a plain console made of the same wood as the coffee table. Above the T.V. was a large, framed painting of the Sacred Heart – easily the goriest rendering Lindsay had ever seen. (And, goodness, what would her mother have to say about that!) The drapes were made of the same beige-pea-green plaid as the sofa, the carpet was off-white, and everything smelled like lemon Pledge. 

The dining room wasn’t any better. The wood table gleamed aggressively beneath the glass chandelier. The single, large window looked out through gauzy curtains onto a patch of grass, which was contained (as though it might try to escape) by a tacky, white picket fence.

The first time she’d been to Brian’s house was on his sister’s birthday. Mr. Kinney showed up late and drunk. Claire had with her a mullet-coifed, red-leather-jacketed boyfriend whom her mother cleared loathed. The turkey dinner was dry from having been in the oven too long while everyone sat around awkwardly in the living room watching _The Waltons_ and waiting for Mr. Kinney, who eventually entered the scene noisily and belligerently. Fortunately, when he saw Lindsay, he instantly went from an ogre to a prince, pulling out her chair at the dining table and remarking on how nice she smelled. He even went into the living room to fetch the bowl of mints and offered her one even though Mrs. Kinney had just brought out the plates of Jell-O salad with mini marshmallows (Claire’s favorite, apparently) and little crystal bowls of Del Monte Fruit Cocktail.

Brian hadn’t said one, single word the entire evening and neither did Mrs. Kinney, which meant the “conversation,” such as it was, consisted of alternating monologues between Mr. Kinney and Claire’s boyfriend. Mr. Kinney looked at Lindsay the entire time as though they were the only ones present. He was all puffed-up and full of the blarney (as he called it, winking at her). 

Finally the excruciating meal ended. Claire opened some perfunctory gifts (a pair of stud earrings in the shape of unicorns, an unflattering blouse, nylons, a package of fluorescent, plastic barrettes, and a box of generic fancy chocolates). The boyfriend gave her a card that made her giggle and blush when she read it while he wiggled his eyebrows at her suggestively. If looks could kill, he’d be a smoldering heap of charred remains the way Mrs. Kinney glared at him.

Suddenly, in the middle of one of Mr. Kinney’s Irish-ism-peppered monologues, Brian threw his napkin on the table, stood up, took her hand and led her to the door. It was _beyond_ rude, and her polite upbringing had rebelled. She’d told him she wanted to say a proper good-bye, and he’d just shrugged and told her he’d wait in the car. She went back and thanked Mrs. Kinney for the meal, wished Claire a very happy birthday, told her boyfriend it’d been a pleasure to meet him and was just about to tell Mr. Kinney how nice it’d been to see him again, when he grabbed her hand and pulled on it, startling her so much that she couldn’t escape his scratchy, slobbery, whiskey-drenched kiss.

Whatever would have happened next if Brian hadn’t pressed on the horn and held it, she had no idea. It was her escape hatch, and she flung herself through it.

 

“Brian, sweetheart,” she said. “We can clean that up. It’s no big deal, and then we can buy some extra-strength glue. It’ll take just a few minutes. That linoleum is no match for our ruthless determination.”

But the peeling linoleum and animal hair that was stuck under it seemed to have defeated Brian’s will to live. He went into the room that would probably be their bedroom, leaned against a wall and slid down until he was sitting with his legs folded and his head in his hands. She stood in the doorway watching him, feeling alarmed and sad but not knowing what to do. Finally he raised his head and banged the back of it against the wall a couple times, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. She walked over and quietly sat down beside him. They didn’t speak, but he reached for her hand and wove their fingers together.

“I don’t know how much longer I can take this,” he said.

“Take what?” she asked softly, running her thumb over his knuckles.

“This,” he said, gesturing with his free hand. “Everything.”

“We don’t have to get this apartment if you don’t want to,” she said. “I don’t mind. We can pick up our search in the morning.”

He rolled his head from side-to-side in an extravagant, weary “no.”

“This place is as good as any other,” he said. His voice sounded dead. He let go of her hand and slid to the side until he was lying on the floor in a fetal position, his head in her lap. She petted his hair and traced his ear with her fingertip, a gesture that’d always made him laugh. But not that evening. In fact, she couldn’t recall off the top of her head when she’d last heard him laugh about anything.

It reminded her of a very unexpected phone call she’d received just before they’d left Pittsburgh. It’d been Michael. She wondered how he got her number without asking Brian for it, and he told her he went through “all the damn ‘Peterson’s in the phone book.” Clearly he didn’t want Brian to know he was contacting her.

 _Look_ , he’d said. _I don’t like doing this, and I wish I didn’t feel like I have to, but I don’t know what else to do_.

She started saying something, but he shushed her. _I’m just going to talk, okay. I don’t want this to be a ‘conversation.’ I’m really worried about Brian. I think he’s really depressed. He’s not himself . . . well, he hasn’t been himself for months, no offense, but it’s getting worse. I need you to look after him. Make sure he’s sleeping and eating and keeping up with his classes. Make sure he’s not drinking too much or smoking too much pot. It’s not realistic to try to get him to stop entirely, but just keep track of it. If you don’t feel comfortable confronting him, call me, and I’ll do it. He still listens to me . . . well, kind of. And I think . . . I think he’ll listen to you too. We’re the only people he’s got, Lindsay, and I’m really scared_.

Her heart was pounding, and there’d been a lump in her throat. Things must be really bad if Michael had decided he needed to talk to her. _What’s your number?_ she’d asked and then wrote it down when he told her. She’d promised they’d stay in touch, and then he hung up without a proper good-bye. But she was glad he’d called – at least for no other reason than learning she wasn’t the only one afraid for Brian.

How was her beautiful, impish, free-spirited boyfriend turning into a hollow-eyed, lethargic stranger?

“Hey,” she said, nudging him. “Are you hungry?”

He just shook his head.

She moved so she could smooth her hand over his back. “You’re tired,” she said. “We’ve been doing this stupid apartment thing all day. Let’s go back to the hotel, get cleaned up, order some delivery Thai or something and watch silly movies. You’ll feel better. I know you will.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

It wasn’t the first time (or even the second or third) that he’d gone kind of catatonic like that. The first time they’d been in his car parked behind the Q-Mart, making out. Despite all her best efforts, he couldn’t get an erection. His penis would swell, and he’d thrust up desperately into her hand, but then he’d go completely soft again. It happened over and over until he pulled her hand out of his jeans, buttoned them up, got out of the car, and yelled a litany of obscenities at the star-filled sky. Then he opened up the backdoor, crawled into the car like a wounded animal, lay down and curled up with his knees against his chest and his chin resting on his knees. 

“Take me somewhere,” he’d said so quietly she barely heard him. When she asked where, he just stared at nothing and replied “anywhere – just some place not here.”

She’d gotten out of the car and walked around to the driver’s side. When she started driving, she had no idea where she was going. She got on the interstate heading west and south toward West Virginia. She’d never been there, but she’d always been curious. She was a bit afraid of it (there were so many stories about scary hillbillies), but then again she liked testing the boundaries of her comfort zone. Wasn’t that one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with Brian?

She kept looking at him in the rearview mirror, but he remained curled up and staring at nothing, so she drove and drove and drove and kept on driving. At a place called Clarksburg, she pulled off the interstate to buy some gas and snack food. Then she resumed her course – such as it was. In Weston, she again got off the interstate and started driving, taking narrower roads based on nothing more than their names and whether or not they sounded like they led to interesting places. When dawn came, she finally saw the hills. They were so beautiful in the pale light that her eyes filled with tears. She pulled over at a scenic overlook and got out of the car. It was August, and there was a hint of September in the air. The fog roiled in the valleys, making the mountains look like islands in a milk-white sea. She went back to the car and fished Brian’s cigarettes out of the pocket of his jeans jacket. Sometime that she couldn’t pinpoint, he’d gone from the occasional cigarette to smoking a pack a day.

She looked at him, and was so relieved when she saw that he was sleeping that she closed her eyes and had to swallow back grateful tears. He looked peaceful with his fist curled under his chin. She closed the car door as quietly as she could and sat on the hood. The first cigarette made her feel sick but the fifth made her feel, for the first time in the past several hours, like everything was going to be okay. The summer was almost over, and they could return to Penn State. She just knew that things would get better there.

But they hadn’t. If anything, they got worse. Brian seemed to suddenly have morphed into his father; he’d go out drinking by himself and come home and throw things. He never hurt her either physically or verbally, but it was terrifying to watch him raging at the universe. Twice she called Michael and wired him money so he could come to stay with them for a few days. Brian always calmed down in Michael’s presence, basking in Michael’s bottomless desire to take care of him. Things would even return to normal for a few days. They’d rent movies and eat popcorn, and Brian would laugh, often giving them huge hugs for no ascertainable reason. 

Then Brian lost his job at Pizza Hut, and something seemed to snap. He stopped going to classes. He stopped eating. He stopped getting out of bed. He even stopped taking showers. Nothing cheered him up – _nothing_. Whereas the year before they’d gone out all the time to restaurants and clubs and bars, now Brian seemed reluctant to leave the apartment. The only thing that seemed to animate him was alcohol. They’d stopped having sex. They’d even stopped kissing. She held him for hours, but his body was limp and unresponsive. Sometimes he even cried – but not out loud. The tears would just leak from his unblinking eyes.

The situation was not sustainable. Something was going to have to break, and she began to wonder whether it would be her rather than him. Watching her beautiful, vivacious lover slow turn into a lump of cold clay was starting to become more than she could endure. For the first couple months of the semester, he’d talked to her. Usually it was just a constant, circular monologue about the world being a terrible place full of death and destruction and lies. But sometimes he’d embark on endless, rambling stories about his childhood. It was tedious, but at least he was still maintaining a connection with her, trying to reach out to her through the miasma of dull horror that surrounded him . . .

. . . but then, one day, he just stopped talking.

She played music night and day in an attempt to keep the silence at bay, but by then, silence had become an inalterable fact of their lives, as intractable as dried cement and as omnipresent as air. She knew he desperately needed help, but to get him help involved getting him out of bed, into the bath, shaved, dressed in clean clothes, into the car, out of the car, into a doctor’s office and then back into the car, etc. etc. 

She nearly accomplished all of these things one day. She called the student health center and made an appointment (unbeknownst to him – her hope was that he was so out-of-it, he wouldn’t even realize where they were going and for what purpose). She brought him some breakfast while he was still in bed, and he ate just enough to keep himself alive for another day. Then she tried to get him up, a task she was able to accomplish only when he developed the urge to pee. The trip out of the bedroom, down the hall and into the bathroom felt like walking the whole length of the Appalachian Trail. While he sat on the toilet (he no longer had the energy to stand up when he peed), she ran a bath for him. It took a lot of effort to get him from the toilet to the bath, but once he was in it, he sighed with pleasure – or as close to pleasure as he was capable of feeling. She gently washed his hair and poured water over his head to rinse it off so he wouldn’t have to slide down and completely immerse himself. He closed his eyes and relaxed into her touch. When his hair was rinsed, she got a pair of scissors and trimmed it, and then she did the best she could to clean the rest of him. Shaving turned out to be impossible. He’d grown a short beard, and she didn’t know what to do with it. She also didn’t want him anywhere near a razor regardless of how harmless it was. She almost started to cry when she saw how skinny he’d gotten, but she was determined not to reveal to him the depths of her grief.

Dressing him was not too difficult, and she managed to get him out to the car despite the fact it was frigid and he was shivering violently beneath a sweater and a winter parka. She drove to the health center all the while talking soothingly. Her heart was pounding. This was going to work! Her breathing was so shallow, she felt dizzy . . .

. . . but then everything fell apart in the health center parking lot. He suddenly realized where they were and made his entire body rigid. When she came around to the passenger side door, she couldn’t even get her hands under his arms. She struggled, but even with his weight-loss he was still tall, and there was no chance she’d be able to pick him up. But she tried and tried until first she started to cry, and then she got furious. It was the first time, and it felt _so_ good to call him every bad word in the bad-word lexicon. She yelled and tried to shake him, but he kept his head turned straight forward, his eyes distant and unblinking.

Finally, out of sheer desperation, she ran into the clinic, ran to the mental health wing, grabbed the nearest professional she could find and had a complete melt-down. When she finally convinced someone to come to the parking lot with her, they walked through the door,

. . . and the car was gone. Brian was gone. And he didn’t come back. Not that night, not the next night, not the following night. He simply vanished, leaving behind what little was left of his best friend and the girl he supposedly loved.

They did not hear from him for over a month. It was a wound so callously inflicted that Lindsay made the hardest decision she’d ever made in her life.

She decided that when . . . or if . . . he returned, she was going to break up with him. No matter how much he was suffering it didn’t justify the emotional mutilation of the only people in the whole wide world who’d loved him unconditionally.

Sometimes you’re not even aware of the line until you’re shoved across it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha ha! Bet you were thinking Lindsay was going to find out Brian was gay and have her heart broken when he breaks up with her. No sirree, Lindsay is a bad ass. Brian wouldn't love her so much if she wasn't.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Say hello to Justin and Gus!
> 
>  
> 
> You say you gotta go and find yourself  
> You say that you're becoming someone else  
> Don't recognize the face in the mirror  
> Looking back at you
> 
> You say you're leaving  
> As you look away  
> I know there's really nothin' left to say  
> Just know I'm here  
> Whenever you need me  
> I will wait for you
> 
> So I'll let you go  
> I'll set you free  
> And when you see what you need to see  
> When you find you  
> Come back to me
> 
> ~David Cook "Come Back To Me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm giving you guys a nice, long, juicy chapter since I'm going to be away for a week and won't be posting another chapter until I get back. Happy & safe holidays, everyone!

Ever notice how many events that took place during our late-teens and early-twenties loom disproportionally large when set against the backdrop of our lifetimes? Why, when dementia sets in, are the oldest memories the last to go? Were we somehow “purer” back then? More authentically ourselves? Whatever happened to “growing out of it”? It’s more as though we spend our subsequent lives growing _in_ to those youthful, pivotal years, inhabiting them more fully with each passing decade. What is more precious? The seed or the plant? The potential or what actually happened?

_Lindsay Peterson and Brian Kinney Ten Years Later_

There was more hubbub in the room than she wanted, and she would’ve asked Mel to shoo everyone out, but they all looked so thrilled and happy that she just didn’t have the heart to evict them. After all, they’d all (to one degree or another) put up with her hormonally-saturated crazy for nine months. It seemed only fair that they should all be allowed to see the baby . . .

. . . the baby! She looked down at the little creature in her arms whose skin was so pink, it looked as though it’d been scalded during the course of being born. He was calm and looking up at her with his big, liquid eyes that seemed to say “Okay, that was fun. Now what?” She smiled at him, already madly in love and wary of the world she’d brought him into. It wasn’t always a nice place, let alone a safe one. Bad things happened here, but good things happened too . . .

. . . then, as if perfectly timed by a stage director, Brian Kinney entered the room and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh. My. God.” was all he said, which meant he’d just encountered something that was A Really (No, A _Really_ ) Huge Big Deal. Brian wasn’t often rendered speechless . . . come to think of it, she couldn’t recall off the top of her head when he’d ever been at a loss for words. If he ever had, it was a long, long time ago.

There he was. Looking at her with eyes just as big and expressive as his son’s. _Look what we made_ , she wanted to say – and she probably would’ve if they’d been alone. Instead she just smiled at him and invited him to come meet their baby.

He seemed stunned for a moment, and Michael had to give him a metaphorical pinch in the bum before he slowly approached her bed, awe emanating from every pore. 

“When did it start?” he asked.

“Around seven,” Mel sniped. She’d been trying unsuccessfully to reach Brian all evening, which had been all right with Lindsay. It was . . . trying enough just having Mel in the room while a person was trying to escape from her uterus. If Brian _had_ been around, she would’ve wanted him to watch – a decision she'd probably later have regretted once the drugs wore off.

“Six hours later, there he was,” she said.

“I wish I could’ve been here,” Brian replied, still staring at the newborn in her arms. “How often do I get to see snatch?”

How so very Brian, who, right on cue, received the snickers, groans, glares and half-hearted admonishments that he lived for. Mel, eternally unaware of how much amusement she provided him, rolled her eyes with disgust.

As she always did, Lindsay ignored his theatrics. “He looks just like you,” she said.

“I guess he must be mine then.” Brian’s eyes remained fixed of his son.

Meanwhile, Lindsay’s eyes were fixed on him. He rarely let himself be so . . . _real_ when other people were around.

“Want to hold him?” she asked. She held out the baby to his father, and Brian reached out to take him. She could feel him trembling just a little bit when they touched.

“Careful! Don’t drop him,” Mel snapped unnecessarily.

Brian glanced away momentarily from his son to snark at her, but then he quickly forgot her – and probably everyone else – once the newborn was in his arms.

“We’ve been thinking of names,” Lindsay said. “Mel wants to call him Abraham after her grandfather . . . but I like Gus.”

She was being naughty. The conversation about names was supposed to remain exclusively between her and Mel. In fact, at one point Mel had made it quite clear that she didn’t want Brian involved. She could feel Mel stiffen, but Lindsay knew she wouldn’t say anything after she’d just witnessed Lindsay go through one of the most trying experiences a human being can go through.

She looked into Brian’s eyes and he looked into hers as a silent understanding passed between them.*

 _Say ‘Gus’_ , she told him.

 _Don’t worry, I will_ , he replied. _But I’m going to be clever about it and not piss off your bitch of a girlfriend if I can help it_.

He abruptly turned to a boy who’d been in his entourage when he’d entered the room.

“What do you think?” Brian asked the boy, who only momentarily seemed disconcerted by the role he was being asked to play.

“He wouldn’t survive a day at school being named ‘Abraham,’” the boy replied. “But I guess ‘Gus’ is okay.” He shrugged and smiled the kind of kid smile that meant “I hope I just said the right thing, please don’t kill me if I didn’t.”

“Thank you very much,” Mel said, “and who the hell are you?”

“His name’s J . . . . .”

“Justin,” Michael stepped in to help Brian out. He sounded irritated. It was clear he didn’t think the boy should even be there, let alone be asked his opinion on a name for Brian’s son. He clearly believed that if anyone was going to be asked for an opinion, it should be him.

Poor Michael.

Brian looked at Melanie. “You were on the phone when he shot his load all over me.”

The roomful of lesbians burst into a chorus of “eeeewwww”s and “gross”s. Lindsay laughed indulgently.

“Brian,” she said, but her chiding stemmed more from amusement than condemnation.

“He can’t help it,” Brian replied. “He’s only seventeen.”

“So you and Lindsay _each_ had an infant tonight,” Mel said.

Brian didn’t bother looking at her. “Mine doesn’t suck on my tits,” he said, gazing adoringly at Gus before turning his head to look at Justin. “Unless I want him to,” he added. The boy beamed.

“Gus,” Brian said as though the issue had been settled by his young trick. “It’s a good butch name.” 

_Crafty, Brian,_ Lindsay thought. He was a master at getting his way – which, in this case, had also been hers.

“C’mon, Gus,” Brian said, holding his son up so he could look in the newborn’s eyes. “Give your daddy a smile.”

Michael took a picture, and there it was: That smile, that sweet, closed-lipped smile she used to live for . . .

. . . and still did.

 

_Ten Years Earlier_

Brian eventually returned from wherever it was he’d disappeared to. Michael wrote to Lindsay in Paris to let her know, and she sent back a postcard that read only _Thank you for informing me._ When she heard nothing from Brian, himself, all she felt was ache-tinged relief. Her resolve to let him go was sturdy, but not impermeable.

The first few days after he’d run away from the health center were the worst days of her life. She’d called all the hospitals and police stations in Pennsylvania numerous times, and then she’d widened her search to New York City, Columbus, Cincinnati and even Chicago. Nothing. Which had been both good and bad. Good because he wasn’t hurt or in jail, and bad because it meant she couldn’t find him.

On the third day, Jenny had moved in with her. They hadn't talk about Brian. Instead they'd studied together and Jenny regaled her with gossip about their sorority sisters. Jenny had shopped, cooked and cleaned, but most importantly, she’d kept Lindsay from sinking into grief and despair. If she hadn’t been there, Lindsay was sure she would’ve slipped into the same kind of depression Brian was in . . . had been in . . . whatever.

She’d thrown herself into her schoolwork, and when finals came around, sh'de aced all of them. But once the semester was over, she’d started to feel hopelessly adrift. Jenny had to go home to her family in California. She’d invited Lindsay to join her, but Lindsay hadn’t felt capable of maintaining a polite, pleasant front for weeks. It was too exhausting to even contemplate. But before Jenny left, she’d helped Lindsay go through the task of subletting the apartment and putting all of Brian’s things in storage. Then they’d wished each other a tearful good-bye, promising to talk every day.

 

She contacted Michael as soon as she got back to Pittsburgh. She wanted to give him the key for the storage unit she’d put Brian’s things in, but she also needed just to talk to someone who knew Brian and had watched Brian’s decline.

She already had his phone number (which she’d needed to use several times over the past three months when Brian had been in particularly bad shape). When she called him, the first thing that popped out of his mouth was “You found him! Is he okay? Where is he? How is he doing? When can we go pick him up? I’ll be ready to go in ten minutes!” When she told him that she had no new information about Brian, he went completely silent.

“If you haven’t found out anything, then why are you calling me?” he asked, his tone flat with weariness.

“I need to talk with you,” she replied. “I . . . I have some questions I want to ask and that I hope you’ll answer candidly.”

After a couple minutes of increasingly desperate pleading, he finally gave in and told her his address.

She was there in half an hour. She’d been at Michael’s house once before when Brian had picked him up that night they’d gone to Mr. Kinney’s bar, but it’d been evening, and she hadn’t gotten a good look at it. The house was small – probably built right after World War II. But despite being unremarkable, it glowed with an aura of welcome. Lights were on in every window, and there were all kinds of rainbow-themed stuff in the little yard and on the porch.

She got out of her car and pulled her cashmere coat close against the nasty, late December cold. The last month had been exceptionally cold, and her heart squeezed painfully when she thought of the possibility that Brian might be homeless and sleeping on the streets somewhere. The obvious warmth of the Novotny home made her even more aware than ever of what Brian had thrown away. She wasn’t particularly religious, but she whispered a prayer for him nonetheless.

 _Please_ , she murmured against her scarf. _Let him be safe and warm and in the company of people who are kind enough to take care of him_.

Just because you let someone go doesn’t mean you’ve stopped loving them. It just means that you love yourself – and your potential – even more. She hoped that when Brian found out she’d left him that he’d understand that. She had a feeling that he would.

She’d expected to be met at the door by Michael, but instead she was met by a loud, colorful ambush of a woman who grabbed her arm and pulled her inside.

“Jesus Christ, it’s fucking cold out there!” the woman practically bellowed. “Get your pretty little bottom in here and have some hot chocolate and Christmas cookies. I just baked them this afternoon. Michael!!”

Lindsay had never in her life been greeted in such a way, and she was equally alarmed and amused. She took off her boots despite a barrage of, “No, honey, no need to freeze your tootsies off; our carpet’s withstood years of abuse, your shoes aren’t gonna make a difference. Here, let me take your coat. Christ, is that cashmere? It’s so soft! One of these days, my son’ll buy me a cashmere coat . . . Michael!! Where the hell are you?”

“Jesus, Ma, I’m coming!” Michael yelled as he came trotting down the stairs. “This isn’t a mansion; you don’t need to yell.”

Mrs. Novotny put her hands on her amble hips and fixed him with A Look. “Clearly I do,” she said. “Or you would’ve gotten your ass down here without making me have to yell again.”

Despite their words, Lindsay was able to discern the deep and enduring love between them.

“Hi, Michael,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied.

And then an endless, awkward silence ensued. Thankfully, Michael’s mother didn’t appear to notice that anything was awry.

“Get in here, both of you and sit down! Jesus Christ! Some of these cookies are burnt! Goddamn recipe! I knew I shoulda stuck with Nestle’s!” 

Both Lindsay and Michael entered the kitchen cautiously – not because of Michael’s mother’s theatrics, but because the two of them knew too much – and too little. They sat down opposite to each other at the kitchen table and were immediately engulfed by mugs of hot chocolate, cookies, cake and squares of walnut fudge.

“That’s Brian’s favorite kind,” Mrs. Novotny said. “Used to eat it till he made himself sick.” She laughed at the image she’d painted. “It’s a damn shame he wouldn’t be having any this year.”

Lindsay looked at her, her mouth open while Michael just staring into his mug looking as though he wished he could disappear into it like Alice down the rabbit hole. 

“What?” Mrs. Novotny said. “I thought that’s what was gonna happen tonight. We were gonna talk about that asshole and try to come up with a plan to bring him back to his family where he Goddamn well belongs!”

Lindsay winced at the thought of Brian returning from wherever he was only to go back to that crypt masquerading as a home and a nest of vampires that vaguely resembled a family. 

“No offense, Mrs. Novotny,” she said.

“Debbie.”

“No offense, Debbie, but I’m not sure that being with his parents would be the best place for him right now.”

“Jesus Christ! Of course, he shouldn’t be with his parents! Fucking monsters, they are! Treating their own child that way! Hitting him, neglecting him! No, honey, I’m talking about _this_ family – me and Michael. We’re his _real_ family, not those ungrateful assholes. God gave them a beautiful son, and look what they did to him! . . .”

“Ma,” Michael said, placing a hand on her arm. “Calm down.”

“I will not calm down!” she yelled. “One of my boys is out there, God knows where. Alone. Jesus, what if he’s hustling? What if he gets sick or hurt or murdered? I couldn’t live with myself!” She swiped tears from her eyes with an impatient gesture. “Goddamn little asshole! How could he do this to us? To _himself_?”

She was still talking, but Lindsay had stopped listening when she heard the word “hustling.” She didn’t know what it meant (something to do with cattle?) but she did _not_ like the sound of it.

“What do you mean by ‘hustling’?” she asked.

Michael put his face in his hands. “Ma,” he said. There was both exasperation and resignation in his voice. “I _told_ you . . .”

“I know what you told me!” Debbie replied. “I’m just not gonna listen! This poor girl has a right to know the fucking truth!”

Lindsay swallowed. The truth? Wasn’t that the reason she came here – to learn the truth? Why had her blood suddenly run cold?

Debbie reached out and laid a warm, comforting hand on top of Lindsay’s. “Honey,” she said. “Sweetie. Brian is gay, and hustling is what gay boys sometimes do to make money. It’s the male version of being a whore.”

“Oh, God,” Michael moaned through his fingers.

An infinite instant passed. The world stopped spinning . . . no, that was just a cliché. The world simply stopped existing, and the vacuum it left behind was airless and lightless. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see. She was only vaguely aware that she’d stood up and walked toward the door, and then she was outside, running down the street in bare feet and without a coat. She could hear Michael behind her, yelling for her to stop, but she didn’t. She just kept going and going until she reached a dead end blocked by concrete Jersey barriers. Beyond them was a steep slope covered with briars and brambles. Even in the state she was in, she knew they’d tear her feet apart. Suddenly her strength left her and she just collapsed, let herself melt like wax against the frozen ground, crying and crying and crying.

“Jesus,” Michael said, panting for breath. “Are you fucking crazy? You could’ve been hit by a car or something! You weren’t even watching where you were going!”

“I don’t care,” she replied, her cheek pressed against the gravel.

“Maybe _you_ don’t, but I’m sure other people do . . . including my mother and me. . . and Brian.”

She lifted her head. “If you care so much about me, then why’d I have to find out like this? Why didn’t anyone _fucking tell me!?_

Michael blanched at her unusual outburst, but then he sighed and sat down beside her. “I have two unshakeable loyalties: one to my ma and the other to Brian,” he said, “and he didn’t want me to tell you. He threatened me he’d cut me out of his life, and he would. He doesn’t bluff. I figured the best approach was to remain close to him and _try_ as best I could to get him to do the right things – to stop trying to be straight and to tell you the truth. But he refused to listen to me, and here we are. You and me. And he’s gone, and I . . . I can’t live without him, and my ma knows it, and she’s scared shitless for both me and Brian. I’m sorry the truth came out like this. I told her to be gentle and subtle about it, but the word ‘subtle’ isn’t part of her vocabulary. Especially with all that’s at stake.”

She looked at him for a long time. His eyes were so sad and lost looking. Slowly, the world started returning from the black hole it’d been sucked into.

“So,” she said calmly. “Brian is gay.”

Michael nodded.

“And he’s always been gay.”

“People are born gay.”

“So he knew it.”

“Yeah, he knew it. And was proud of it too. He was the one to help me come out . . . well, to the extent that I have.”

“Did . . . did he have boyfriends?”

“No. He just . . . well, he just had a lot of sex with a lot of guys. He never wanted to see any of them again afterward. He just loved . . . well, fucking.”

Her heart suddenly stopped beating when the specter of AIDs reared its ghoulish head. Because that’s what happened, right? Homosexuals got AIDs and died. Brian could’ve given _her_ AIDs!

“Has . . . did he have sex with anyone while . . . while he and I were going out?” she asked, terrified Michael would say yes, but he shook his head.

“Once he decided he was going to ‘go straight,’ he stopped having sex with guys. He would never have cheated on you. For all his faults, Brian isn’t someone who would _ever_ put a person he loved in danger in _any_ way, so you can wipe the whole AIDs thing from your mind. It’s nonsense.”

“Why’d he try to ‘go straight'?” she asked, using the same air-quotes that Michael had.

Michael sighed. “There are too many reasons to get into right now, but the basic one is that he thought he couldn’t ‘make it’ as a gay man. All his life, he’s wanted to be rich and successful, and he got it into his head at some point that to do so he needed to be straight. Brian . . . well, Brian, has an inflated opinion of himself. He thinks he can do anything he sets his mind to, and he decided to set his mind to changing his sexuality. Which obviously didn’t work, or we wouldn’t be here now freezing our asses off and he wouldn’t be . . . God only knows where.”

“So, he used me?” She would’ve start sobbing again except that she’d run out of tears. Some things can be so traumatizing that they defy the usual methods of managing pain.

Michael didn’t answer. He just looked down at the ground.

“He used me.” She lay back down. She was going to die there. It was cold enough. She could easily freeze to death.

“I . . . I don’t know what he did,” Michael said. “He wouldn’t talk to me about you. But . . . but I’ve known Brian long enough to know that he never lets anyone in unless they’re people that he loves. I think he let you in, and I think that means he loved you. Did . . . did he tell you he did?”

She merely nodded.

“Then he did – and probably still does,” Michael said flatly as if the issue was no longer up for debate. “Case closed. To my knowledge – which is extensive, I majored in Brian Kinney Studies – he’s only said ‘I love you’ to three people in his entire life: my mom, although not in actual words, me . . . and you. You can make of that what you want to.”

She didn’t sit up, but she lifted her head to look at him.

“What I make of that,” she said. “Is that I’m going to spend springtime in Paris.”

He looked at her with an expression of utter bafflement.

“Paris?”

“There’s a couple slots open for the semester abroad program in France. I’m going to apply for one, and I’ll get it. The lowest grade I’ve received is a ‘B+.’”

“Uhm . . . okay,” Michael replied, obviously missing the segue.

“But first I need to go back to your place, put on my shoes and coat, and drive back to my parents’ house.”

Michael stood up and offered her a hand, but then when he tried to get her to lean on him, she shook her head.

“Thank you, but I don’t need any assistance,” she said. 

When they returned to Michael’s house, she left bloody footprints on the welcome mat. Debbie looked at her sympathetically, but she didn’t say anything. Instead she fetched a towel and a basin of warm water and made Lindsay sit on the couch.

“You’re gonna need to put some Bactine on that when you get home,” she said kindly as she washed Lindsay’s damaged feet. “Thank God, you didn’t step on broken glass or we’d be goin’ to Allegheny General tonight.” She looked up and crossed herself.

Lindsay didn’t say a word. When her feet were clean, she gingerly pulled her boots on and stood up. Debbie got her coat and Lindsay put it on. Her expression, she knew, was as cold as ice. She hoped Debbie and Michael wouldn’t think it was directed at them.

“Christ,” Debbie said softly. “You’re so much alike – you and Brian, I mean. So proud, so untouchable, so beautiful . . . but so fragile deep underneath.”

She cupped Lindsay’s cheek. “Take care of yourself,” she said. “Just remember one thing: This is now officially your second home.”

Lindsay let just a twitch of a smile touch her lips, and then she was gone.

Debbie and Michael did not see her again for a very long time.

 

_Ten Years Later_

Brian disappeared to do whatever an emotional Brian goes. Fortunately Michael was with him, so if Brian tried to jump off the roof or something equally drama-queenish, Michael could talk him down off the ledge.

Lindsay was exhausted, and she was beginning to wonder if Brian had left without saying good-bye when suddenly he came sailing into the room in a wheelchair.

“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to come back tomorrow,” the nurse said. “The mother needs her rest.”

“And so does the father,” Brian replied, apparently all ready to start using his new status to his advantage.

“It’s okay, nurse,” Lindsay said and then wished her little Gus a good night as did Brian when the nurse passed him carrying his son.

“Sweet dreams, Sonny-Boy,” he said softly. “First night on earth.” Lindsay only winced a little bit at the “sonny-boy,” but she wasn’t surprised. She’d expected Jack to enter the picture in one way, shape or another. She looked at Mel.

“Hon, could you get me some ice and maybe something fizzy?” She rested her hand on top of Mel’s willing her to please not make a scene about the fact that she wanted to be alone with Brian.

“How ‘bout some ginger ale?” Mel replied. Lindsay smiled at her gratefully and squeezed her hand before releasing it. Mel gave her hand a kiss.

Mel was almost through the door before she asked with obvious reluctance if Brian wanted anything.

“If you see any amyl nitrate lying around,” Brian replied, and Mel rolled her eyes before she left and closed the door behind her – a rare concession to Lindsay and Brian’s special relationship.

Brian flopped down on the bed beside her, put her arm around her shoulders and placed his other hand on her belly. “Alone at last,” he said.

“Careful,” she said. She was still tender.

Brian gentled his touch and took a deep breath, tightening his embrace, but not too tight. “Well, here we are,” he said, his voice just a tad wobbly with emotion. “Ma and Pa.”

She started to cry. She hadn’t been alone for hours, and now here she was, all alone but for Brian. She didn’t care if he saw her break down just a little bit.

“Hey,” he said softly and gently brushed a tear from her cheek with his finger.

They rested their foreheads against each other.

“Don’t mind me,” she said shakily. He placed his finger under her chin so he could lift her head and look in her eyes. “Just feeling a little vulnerable,” she added.

He pulled her closer, and she started to laugh. She knew he couldn’t bear to see her cry.

“I promise not to tell,” he whispered. She gave him a brave smile.

“Who would’ve thought,” she said after a moment and took another shaky breath. “Me and you. Parents.”

He raised his eyebrows in a mock expression of alarm. “Pretty crazy, boys and girls,” he said. “Think it’s too late to return it?”

“We could try,” Lindsay whispered conspiratorially. And then she laughed. God, the world had gone crazy! “I guess this means we’re finally grown-ups,” she said with a feigned air of accomplishment.

“Don’t say that, Wendy,” he said. “We’ll never grow up.”

“Don’t be scared,” she said, knowing damn well he was. “Hell, if our parents could fuck up so could we.”

They were quiet for a moment, and then Brian drew another deep breath. “I don’t want you to worry,” he said earnestly. “About money, I mean. If you need anything . . .”

She looked at him and shook her head. “No. We’ll be alright.” Their eyes locked for a moment. She was too proud to take his money, and she knew he admired her for it. “But thanks.”

She kissed his cheek and he looked down with something that almost looked like wistfulness. She brushed his other cheek fondly. They smiled shyly at each other.

And then, because Brian was Brian, he said, “I would’ve fucked you, you know.” Lindsay laughed and rolled her eyes. “If I didn’t think your lover would beat the shit out of me,” he added.

“Stop,” she said playfully.

Brian looked at her. “I mean it,” he said.

And just like that, a thousand memories came surging back like a tide. Brian making love to her. If only Gus could’ve been conceived like that, with Brian inside her rather than a turkey baster . . . . She stopped her train of thought. Down that way lay only mournful wishing, and that’s what had had to stop a long time ago if she and Brian were to be friends. It was just . . . 

“She could take on Oscar de la Renta,” he said, drawing her back to the moment at hand – and Melanie.

Lindsay chuckled. “You mean Oscar La Hoya.” She gave him a teasing bump on the chin with her knucles.

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” God, he was so gay sometimes!

For some unfathomable reason – maybe the thought of his ‘gayness,’ she returned to the topic of his belated offer to “fuck her.”

“You had plenty of chances,” she said.

He looked at her. “And I took advantage a few times, I recall.” He wasn’t being flippant.

“It wasn’t half bad,” she said.

His odd moment of seriousness passed. “ _Now_ you tell me,” he said. “You mean I could’ve been straight this whole time?”

She shrugged her concession. “I wouldn’t say that,” she said, touching his chin.

He smiled. “Then I guess it’s just as well,” he said, sounding wistful again.

He lifted his head, and they looked in each other’s eyes for a moment until his gaze flicked to her lips, and the next thing she knew, he was kissing her. A _real_ kiss – an eyes-closed, mouth-slightly-open kiss. She melted against him, not bothering to care what they were doing and where it might go.

Suddenly, Melanie walked in and shook a pitcher of ice to alert them to her presence. Both of them glanced at her guiltily. Mel did _not_ look pleased.

And for good reason. She sensed, although they had never talked about it and never would, that Lindsay loved Brian more than Lindsay loved her.

She was right.

 

_Ten Years Earlier_

When she returned to Pittsburgh after her (wonderful) time in Paris, her resolve to never see Brian again lasted about a week. She was proud of herself that she’d actually held out that long, but fighting the urge to see him was exhausting and consumed too much of her time and too many of her thoughts.

“He’s probably at Babylon,” Debbie said when she answered the phone. Lindsay had barely said “hello” before Debbie had volunteered the information. She must have some kind of sixth sense when it came to “her boys.”

“Babylon?” Lindsay asked. “What’s that?”

“A gay dance club. Tell you what, sweetie,” Debbie said. “Why don’t you come here, have a slice of pie and a cup of tea, and I’ll fill you in on what’s happened while you’ve been off travelling the world.”

Lindsay laughed. Debbie was something else altogether. No polite mincing around with her. It was refreshing.

“Will Michael or Brian be there?” she asked. She wasn’t ready to see either of them yet.

“Sweetie, I won’t see Michael till three, and I won’t see Brian until he comes to breakfast at the diner where I work, which’ll probably not be until eleven if he’s been fucking until the ass crack of dawn.”

Lindsay swallowed and then took two – no three – long, deep breaths. This was how it was going to be then. Brian was going to be gay, and he was going to do gay things, which apparently involved sex with God only knows how many complete strangers. This was the life he’d chosen over a life with her.

“Are you sure you want to stir up this nest of bees?” Debbie asked. “Because you can walk away. You’re strong enough . . . unlike someone I know and dearly love.”

She didn’t say Michael’s name, but it was easy to figure out to whom she was referring.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

“Honey, I don’t blame you,” Debbie said. “But if you want to come by, I can at least fill you in on the important details.” She paused. “I know you still love him. He’s doing very well, and I’m sure he’d like very much for you to know that.”

Lindsay laughed ruefully. “Well, he knew how to reach me, and why am I supposed to be happy to know he’s happy now that he’s without me?”

“Because you love him,” Debbie said. “And you want to know he’s okay more than it hurts to find out. Now get over here before the pie gets cold and the ice cream melts.”

The little house was the same as she remembered it – cluttered and full of the smell of delicious things. Debbie also looked the same. She was wearing a T-Shirt that said “Got Cock?” By now Lindsay knew that all the rainbow decorations represented gay pride and not unicorns or My Little Pony.

“Sit down,” Debbie said. “My, don’t you look lovely – even more so than I remembered.”

They chatted about totally inconsequently things for about three minutes. Clearly, Debbie didn’t do “inconsequential,” much like she didn’t do “subtle” or “discreet.”

“So here’s the long and short of it,” she said. “Little boy lost showed up on my doorstep, freezing and skinny as hell. He was a fucking mess, but when I asked if he’d been hustling, he was adamant that he hadn’t been.” She paused to look at the ceiling and cross herself. “And I believe him. Brian doesn’t lie . . .”

Lindsay cleared her throat and looked at her with an arched eyebrow. Debbie acknowledged the reminder with a sad nod.

“I know,” she sighed. “And I know he feels terrible about it . . .”

“You’ve discussed me with him?” Lindsay didn’t know if she was touched or offended.

“Not exactly,” Debbie replied. “Brian doesn’t discuss things . . . .”

Lindsay interrupted again. “Yes, he does. He talked to me all the time about all kinds of things – things I know he’s never told anyone else, no offense to you and your son. I didn’t have to force information out of him. We used to talk all the time about everything for hours.”

Debbie just looked at her with a cocked head and a contemplative expression. “Did he now?” she said, sounding genuinely surprised. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Brian Kinney?”

Lindsay couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess there’s more than just one,” she said.

Debbie took a deep breath and released it. For a moment she seemed kind of sad. “There’s probably more than two as well,” she said. “Poor kid. I wonder if anyone will ever see the entirety . . . or know what to do with that entirety once they did.”

Lindsay took a moment to let the realization of the profound love this women felt for Brian sink in.

“Poor kid,” Debbie said again and then when tears formed in her eyes, she started rummaging around noisily in the freezer. “Where’s the fucking ice cream? If those boys . . . ah, here it is.”

Over the course of the next hour, Lindsay ate two pieces of pie, drank three cups of tea, and was filled-in on all things Brian Kinney. Apparently, Brian had pulled himself back together and returned to Penn. State for the spring semester. Michael went with him to make sure he didn’t get depressed again. Brian got a job with Fed. Ex., and with all the box lifting, he was able to get back into shape. He got top grades on all his finals and was doing an internship at an ad agency over the summer. He was living in a sublet in the city, and hadn’t seen his parents in nearly a year. Apparently, he wasn’t even communicating with them.

Lindsay hated herself for asking, but she had to know. “Does he ever . . . has he ever mentioned me?”

Debbie’s expression gave her all the information she needed to realize that he hadn’t. She started to cry – not hard, but enough to make her nose run. Debbie got up from the table and returned with a box of Kleenex.

“But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been thinking about you, sweetie, or that he doesn’t love you,” Debbie said kindly, placing her hand on top of Lindsay’s. “Like I said, Brian doesn’t discuss things . . . well, at least not with me, not like what you think when you hear the word ‘discuss.’ But I’ve known Brian a hell of a long time, and I know what his silences mean – sometimes they say even more than words could. And I know how to read his eyes. Brian probably doesn’t know it, but he wears his heart on his sleeve when it comes to his eyes. I can’t give you exact examples; you’re just gonna have to take my word for.”

Lindsay nodded and tilted her head back, willing her tears to stop falling. How many times had she promised herself she wasn’t going to cry over Brian anymore?

“I need to see him,” she said after a couple minutes. “I . . . I don’t think I want to talk to him, but I’d like to see him. My last memory of him was when he was depressed. You say he’s better now. I’d like very much to see that.”

“Then go to Babylon,” Debbie said as if it was most obvious solution on the face of the planet. “He’ll be there. No doubt about it.”

“Me? Go to a gay club??”

Debbie shrugged. “Sure, why not? I’ve even gone a couple of times even though it’s too damn loud and Michael gets pissed at me. Women don’t have to have memberships or pay the entrance fee. Just show up, and they’ll let you right in.”

“But I’m not dressed for a night club.”

“Honey,” Debbie said. “Trust me. This is a club for gay man. They wouldn’t give a shit if you showed up naked. Just go in, have a quick look at him and go. The place is large enough that he won’t even know you were there, and I sure as hell won’t tell him.”

It seemed like a very _very_ bad idea, but Lindsay wasn’t able to talk herself out of it. She just wanted . . . no _needed_ to see him. That’s all. She didn’t need – or even want – to talk to him. She just wanted to see him again, maybe for the last time. Their paths were unlikely to cross again – at least if she had any say in the matter.

Babylon was similar to the clubs she and Brian had gone to when they were together – loud, manic and dark – but where the difference lay was in the crowd (and the go-go dancers, of course). The dance floor writhed with male bodies in various stages of undress. People weren’t so much dancing with each other; they were dancing with everyone and anyone who looked at them or touched them or whispered in their ears. This wasn’t a world of couples or of dates. This was a music-accompanied orgy. Lindsay was both mesmerized and appalled.

How the heck was she going to find Brian amidst all those people? She climbed some stairs that led to a platform. Making herself as unobtrusive as she could, she eased her way to the railing and looked down on the dance floor . . .

. . . and there he was. She didn’t even have to search. He was at the center of the whirlwind of bodies, both surrounded and apart. He was dressed in black like he’d always been, at Penn., but his shirt was sleeveless and unbuttoned to the middle of his chest. His head was thrown back, and his eyes were closed. It reminded her of his face when he came. Lost and found in the same instant. His dark hair was slicked back with the same sweat that made his arms and chest gleam in the spotlights. His lips were slightly open. If he were a saint in a Renaissance painting, he’d be having a religious epiphany, deaf and blind and senseless to everything but God’s awesome voice.

It hurt like heck to look at him. He looked the same but different, and the difference, she saw clearly, was that he was _home_. He was smiling to himself, alone but not lonely. Happy. Free. _Whole_. And one of the reasons for his happiness, she knew, was that he was no longer hers (if he ever had been). Her absence from his life was one of the reasons for that beatific expression. Forgetting her was one of the reasons he looked so free and content in his body – freer than she’d ever seen before, or even imagined. She had been nothing but a cage. A mask. The main character in a play of lies. Ironically, she’d believed that letting him go was an unforgivable betrayal, but now she saw that it was release from unbearable captivity. From a life that was ripping his mind and his body to shreds, rendering his soul exposed to elements as cruel as they were capricious. Nothing but a dried-up sea bed now and then visited by little tornadoes of dust that masqueraded as happiness.

He owed her not only an apology, but a big, huge, fucking _thank you_!

She marched down the stairs, pushed her way through the crowd until she was standing right in front of him. She jabbed him ungently in the sternum with her finger, and he looked at her, startled. She watched, mesmerized and amused, as recognition dawned.

“Lindsay,” he said.

“Brian,” she replied.

And that was all. Every curse and invective died on her lips when she saw his eyes. Debbie was right. Brian’s soul looked out, unveiled, through his expressive eyes – fringed by those lashes that had been the source of their whole relationship. Those beautiful lashes. That beautiful face. He smiled at her. That beautiful smile.

In an instant, she forgave him everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *You have to watch this moment for yourself (season one, first half of the pilot episode). It’s rather amazing. Just their looks and gestures make it clear they’re talking to each other. Just that single second illustrates the nature and depth of their relationship. It’s brilliant!


End file.
